


After the dark

by all_4_feels



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Bottom Arthur, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Top John, Torture, Touch-Starved, Whipping, blowjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 36,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_4_feels/pseuds/all_4_feels
Summary: Of course it would be a bloody trap, what else could you expect from Colm O'Damn Driscoll.02.09.2019Oh wow, over 20 000 hits! Thank you so much for reading my fic, guys! Stay tuned, this story is far from being over ;DP.S. Comments are always appreciated <3





	1. Chapter 1

"Goddamn Micah...," Arthur muttered to himself as he restocked the saddlebags on his bay mustang, fumbling with the clasps. "Nothing for you to worry about, girl," he reassured his horse with a small smile as the mare turned its head look at him questioningly. That creature seemed to always sense Arthur's true feelings, which was more than he could say about most men and sometimes even himself. He found it hard to make up his mind about certain people, such as Micah and Jo-, "Hey, Arthur!"

Speaking of the devil. Arthur cringed inwardly as he recognized the hoarse voice and heard long, hurried footsteps approaching him from the direction of their camp. Damn. He had hoped to be able to leave with Dutch and Micah undetected, so as not to be subjected to the numerous questions and lecturing.

Arthur knew very well that this would most likely turn out to be a suicide mission, but it didn't change the fact that he still had to go along. Now, he didn't give two shits about Micah, but Dutch... He couldn't just let his mentor walk into his death, not even out of the man's own stupidity. Arthur nodded in greeting as the younger man stopped next to him and started to stroke the mustang's silky head. "Marston."

"Where are you going?" John Marston, ever the curious. The boy had been insufferable ever since he had recovered from those wounds. Apparently still not back together with Abigail and yet to acknowledge Jack as his son, John had targeted Arthur instead and was now following him around like a goddamn puppy dog, chewing his ear off with his constant yapping. Arthur couldn't help but wonder if getting bitten by those wolves had turned John into one.

Maybe they should have just left him to die on that mountain. Arthur had still not quite forgiven John for leaving him... them for nearly a full year. He wanted to, if only for the sake of his own sanity, but the pain was still too fresh in his memory. Arthur let out a long sigh. In spite of it all, John was a member of their gang just as much as everybody else and thus deserved to know if there was something going on.

"Pearson ran into some of those O'Driscolls and they told him that Colm wants to meet up, to try and make a truce with Dutch. Bullcrap, I say. And you know Dutch, he wasn't too keen on the idea, either, but Micah talked him into it. So now I'm going with them to make sure that those two fools don't get themselves killed."

"What?!" John's fingers seized the mustang's bridle. Arthur noticed the gesture. "It's a trap," the younger man then continued with a slightly calmer voice. Arthur gave up his fight with the clasps, leaning one hand against the saddle. He looked down, suddenly feeling the need to hide his face underneath the brim of his hat. "Yeah, I know... Hosea said the same thing." Of course it would be a bloody trap, what else could you expect from Colm O'Damn Driscoll.

John stared at him, aghast. "But... but then... why are you still going?" Arthur gritted his teeth in annoyance. Trust Marston to miss the obvious. "I told Dutch that it would be a bad idea, but he didn't listen to me, so it seems that the only thing I can do for him now is to watch his back." Arthur knew that loyalty was probably not as big of a deal for John as it was for himself. He would gladly die for Dutch. Hell, he would die for almost anyone in this camp.

Now it was John's turn to let his hat cast a shadow over his face. "But... who's going to have your back?" The question was uttered so softly that at first Arthur wasn't sure if he had even heard it at all. He glanced up, taking in the younger man's moody posture. Then John's head snapped up as well and Arthur found himself nailed to the spot by an intense pair of dark gray eyes. He gulped, not knowing what to answer. What could he answer to a question like that?

John let go of the mustang's head and took a bold step closer. "Arthur...," he rasped as he raised a hand to tilt back the hat from the older man's face. Arthur's heartbeat kicked up and heat rose to his cheeks. Without the cover he felt suddenly very exposed and vulnerable. This young man was in his space, keen eyes burning through his own as if gazing right into his soul. John was shorter, more slender in frame and a whole lot prettier, but somehow he made Arthur Morgan feel like a goddamn blushing maiden. This was dangerous and Arthur told himself that he didn't like it, not one bit.

Finally losing his temper, Arthur jerked his head to the side, tearing his blue eyes away from the other man's. Then he placed his foot on the stirrup, gripped the horn and hoisted himself onto the back his horse. He pretended not to notice the way John's gaze lingered a little too long on his rear before he sat down on the leather. "Look, kid... I can handle myself well enough."

Snapping out of his trance, John rushed to grab a hold of the reins. "Can I come with you? We both know that I'm the best shot. I can scope and you can watch my six." Arthur snorted and yanked, regaining the control over his steed. Since when did Marston care so much about old Arthur's wellbeing? Maybe the kid was just bored and wanted some action. "Nah, Dutch said that it should be just the three of us. Besides, it'll be safer if I don't have to worry about you as well."

But John wasn't giving up so easily. He placed a hand on Arthur's knee and the older man shuddered, suppressing a groan as a shock of _something_ went through his body at the gentle touch. Their eyes locked once again. 'John Marston, dangerously captivating,' Arthur mused to himself and then cursed inwardly. "Please, Arthur... I have a bad feeling about this." Arthur wanted to say "so do I, kid, so do I", but instead he bellowed, "Boy, are you deaf or what? Stop pestering me and go be with your son, or something."

If not for his irritation, Arthur would have laughed out loud at the way John's face went from innocent to downright murderous in a mere matter of seconds. The boy was kind of... cute. "He's not my son," John growled icily through his bared teeth, slowly removing his hand. Arthur was slightly disappointed at the loss of contact, but getting to see this comical crossbreed between man and wolf was definitely worth it. "Whatever you say, Marston," he chuckled.

Arthur then turned around his horse, gradually taking his leave. He had to go now, he could see Dutch and Micah waiting for him at the start of the trail leading away from the camp. It was already afternoon and they had to do this in the plain daylight, it was safer that way.

John recovered quickly from his fit of anger. "Just... be careful, okay," he called after Arthur who urged his mare into a hastier gait. The older man turned in his saddle and flashed a cheeky grin. "Of course! Careful is my second name."

* * *

... And of course it turned out to be a goddamn trap. But not for Dutch, as Arthur found out when the butt of a rifle collided with the side of his head. In that split second before the lights went out he wondered if Micah had known all along.

When Arthur next stirred, he found himself draped over the back end of a horse with his wrists and ankles tied and connected. It was not his own bay mare, this one was of a lighter color. Someone was sitting in the saddle next to him. Temple throbbing, Arthur slowly turned his head to see his mustang following them from a short distance. "Eliza... run...," he croaked, but was interrupted by another blow to his head. "Shut the hell up!" Escorted back to unconsciousness by the mustang's agitated neighing, Arthur wondered if he would ever see John again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At that moment he hoped to God that Colm's plan was indeed to kill him and not to...

It was early evening when the group of O'Driscolls arrived at their main camp. Arthur was startled awake as he was lifted from the back of the horse and unceremoniously dumped to the ground in the middle of the camp, right next to the crackling fire.

Disoriented, he staggered to his feet but could not stand fully upright due to the connecting rope between his wrists and ankles. Someone kicked him in the calf and his knees buckled, sending him face first into a buddle of mud. Spitting dirt and squirming in his bonds to no avail, he let out an angry yell of frustration and the men around him laughed at his helplessness.

Then from the middle of the crowd emerged Colm O'Driscoll himself, carrying a metal bucket. He circled around Arthur like a cougar would do to an injured deer before lunging in and giving the killing strike. He couldn't quite place the feeling, but something about the predatory glint in the man's pig-like eyes sent a spike of fear down Arthur's spine.

Finally the gang leader's steps came to a halt right in front of Arthur, who raised his head in defiance to meet his kidnapper eye to eye. This was a mistake, he then realized, as Colm threw the contents of the bucket at him and the shock of ice cold water hit him straight in the face.

Colm turned around the now empty bucket and sat down on it, facing Arthur who rasped between sputters and gasps, "Oh... so... you're giving your captives showers now? Colm, you have... definitely worked on your... hospitality. What's next, a... a back rub? A hot meal?" He was slightly relieved that his face wasn't covered in mud anymore.

This small comfort was, however, short lived as Colm suddenly grapped Arthur by his black bandana and punched him in the middle of the face, hard. Three times he hit him, until Arthur's bottom lip split and his nose started bleeding. Arthur spat blood, his vision spinning, but forced himself to meet his captor's eyes once more with the most shit-eating grin he could muster. "Rule number one... Never lose your temper, you'll give away your cards all at once."

That remark earned him a bruising slap on the cheek. Then the gang leader pulled him so close that their noses were almost touching. Arthur could smell the man's foul breath as he slowly hissed, "Oh, don't you worry, boy... I have my best cards yet to play with you... You're going to love what I have in store for you... We're going to wipe that arrogant smile right off your face." Then he gripped Arthur's jaw, moist from water and blood, and forcibly turned his face towards the men gathered around them.

"Do you know who this is, boys," Colm inquired from his gang members before turning his attention back to his captive. "You are Arthur Morgan, aren't you." That was a statement, not a question. "Dutch van der Linde's adopted street rat and favorite guard dog... or should I say lapdog," he then bellowed and his men burst out laughing along with him, some of them mimicking howling and barking.

Arthur saw stars and his head ached something fierce, thanks to the earlier blow to his temple and the more recent additional beating. He almost hoped that Colm would next hit him somewhere else. Almost. He was fairly certain that his condition would not improve the longer he stayed and so he had to get out of there, one way or another and the sooner the better.

While rolling in the mud Arthur had made sure to smear some of it onto his wrists and now, after a lot of wiggling, he could finally feel the slickness starting to work its magic. Despite feeling nauseous and weak he chose that moment to try out his luck at an escape.

Colm was still laughing with his gang when Arthur collided his forehead with the other man's. The force of the impact sent the gang leader falling backwards with his bucket and a cry of surprise. His men just stood there, apparently stunned by the sudden change in the course of events. This gave Arthur just enough time to yank his hands free from the loosened rope, snatch a knife from Colm's belt and cut the bindings around his ankles. Then he bolted like a bat out of hell.

Arthur ran, aiming towards a table a few tents ahead where he could see a bunch of weapons laid out. But his break for freedom was cut short as a shot was fired and a bullet pierced his thigh. Arthur fell with a cry, knocking his head against the edge of the table. The world around him spun and he sagged to the ground, mere inches away from the guns he had tried to reach.

The O'Driscolls were on him then, recovered from whatever trance they had been set in. They pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists again, this time using metal handcuffs. Then they proceeded to bind his ankles as well, but stopped when they heard a command, "No, leave his legs untied!" So instead they turned him onto his back and dragged him up, forcing him to stand on his injured leg.

Arthur bit hard on his lip and squeezed back the tears of pain that were trying to escape his eyes. He would not show weakness in front of these people, not if he could help it. Through the haze and the buzzing in his mind he could barely make out the form of Colm back by the campfire, glutching his forehead with one hand and holding a smoking revolver in the other. Then the gang leader started to walk towards him.

Two huge men held Arthur upright by his armpits as Colm stalked closer. Arthur was pretty big himself, but the pair of them were positively colossal. His legs were free, but injured, in pain and within an inch from blacking out, he couldn't have resisted their iron grip on him even if he had wanted to. And so when Colm grasped the front of Arthur's blue flannel shirt, the only thing he could do was to glare daggers at the man's cold gray eyes with his own bloodshot ones.

"Now, why would you try to run away from me like that, hmm? I wasn't done with you yet, not even close... Bad dog, you ought to be punished," the gang leader purred, running a cool finger down Arthur's exposed neck and collarbone. Arthur shivered involuntarily at the contact, feeling suddenly very small. Then Colm raised his hand to tuck away a few wet strands of blond hair from Arthur's forehead. Arthur jerked away from the mock endearment and Colm let out a cackle at his captive's reaction.

"What do you say, boys? Do you think we should give Dutch and our Arthur here a little lesson," Colm inquired from his gang as he proceeded to remove Arthur's bandana and pop open the buttons on his shirt, one by one. He got back a loud round of approving laughter and whistles.

"Killing me won't stop Dutch. He's got a whole bunch of people who are loyal to him," croaked Arthur, who grew more and more alarmed by the inappropriate way Colm was touching and undressing him. At that moment he hoped to God that Colm's plan was indeed to kill him and not to... "Oh, I'm not going to kill you, boy. I'm going to make you a warning example to show Dutch what will happen to all of his loved ones if he doesn't stop sabotaging my business."

After saying that, Colm made a twirling gesture with his finger. The two thugs holding Arthur must have understood the message because one of them let go of his arm to clear the table behind them while the other one grapped Arthur by the back of his neck and slammed his upper body against the hard wooden surface. This time Arthur had to bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from screaming in agony as the sudden movement caused a jolt of crippling pain in his shot leg and his very nearly fractured skull.

The sun had set and the camp around him was now dark, save the flickering fire, but little balls of light danced before Arthur's eyes. He felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur had never been so terrified in all his life.

A splash of freezing water shocked Arthur back to the harsh reality. "Wake up, sunshine! Can't have you falling asleep, I want you to enjoy every last second of this." Heaving, the younger man raised his head and tried to squint into the general direction of the voice.

It was Colm with that goddamn bucket again, which the man clanked a couple of times with his gun for good measure. Arthur's brain felt like it was going to explode and, quite frankly, he wished that it would have. At least it would have spared him from the pain and humiliation that would surely follow.

Arthur was neither stupid nor naive. He knew now what Colm was going to do to him. Handcuffed and unable to even stand on his feet, he also knew that there was no way he could fight his way out of this. He would have to endure it. A lump rose to his throat and his chest tightened at the realization.

Suddenly he thought of a certain someone back at home camp. There was no coming back from something like this, he had seen enough in his life to know that much. No new starts. Whatever would happen next would be all... it ever would be for him. His heart sank.

Arthur was pulled from his thoughts by a sharp slap on his rear. He yelped from the pain it caused in his leg, slowly taking in the surroundings and his own situation. His torso was bent over the table, feet dangling over the edge and hands cuffed behind his back. Cursing his heavy built, Arthur tried to shift all of the weight from his lower body to the one leg that didn't have a bullet in it. He still had most of his clothes on, but for how long, he dared not speculate.

The two giants had backed away somewhat, joining their gang that was now gathered into a circle around the table. Too close for comfort, Arthur could feel their hostile eyes boring into him from every direction. Colm was behind him and Arthur jumped as the man suddenly started kneading his buttocks. Then the gang leader bent over his captive and pressed his chapped lips against the other's ear. Arthur shuddered in disgust.

"Tell me, Arthur... has anyone ever touched you here? Have you ever been fucked in the ass? Does Dutch take you from the behind and breed you like the little bitch you are? Or does he make you ride him on his lap, huh, lapdog? ... No? Well, Arthur... I am honored to be your first." While he spoke, Colm's hand wandered around Arthur's behind, sliding between his legs and finally coming to a rest at his crotch.

Arthur was not a bashful man, not by any means, but in this particular situation he felt his cheeks burning up at the other man's crude words. What Colm implied was ridiculous... Dutch was like a father to him. He dared not think about anyone else, for any chance he might have had would be gone by the time Colm would be done with him. Arthur felt so dirty, being touched like this, and he wished that the ground would swallow him whole.

Colm, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy immensely having the bigger man at his mercy. Squeezing Arthur's manhood through the front of his pants, almost to the point of pain, he went on, "But before I can give you the good stuff, I must punish you... And you know why, right? It's because you've been a very bad boy, Arthur Morgan, running off like that..."

With a one last squeeze Colm let go of Arthur's groin and instead moved both of his hands to the other man's belt, which he unbuckled and dropped to the ground. Then he gripped both sides on Arthur's brown pants and yanked them down with a one swift motion, along with his briefs. They came all the way down to pool around Arthur's ankles, who bit back a cry as the material was ripped off the spot where he had been shot.

Arthur hitched a breath as the cold night air hit his backside. Then, without a warning, something far more solid cracked against his tender flesh and Arthur turned his head to look behind him, bewildered. Colm was whipping him with his own belt, that son of a bitch. There must have been something funny about Arthur's reaction or expression, because suddenly the gang around him burst out laughing again, pointing fingers at his face.

Shame and pure hate boiling in his gut, Arthur took another strike. And another. And another one after that. Strike after strike, Arthur could feel the sharp leather tearing open his skin, but forced himself to not let out an utter for their amusement. The last strike Colm aimed to the gun wound on Arthur's thigh and the younger man almost died from the pain right then and there, but still not a single peep escaped his lips. Instead he slid down from the table as his legs gave out and with a thud fell onto his side to the ground.

"You are a tough one, aren't you, mutt," Colm chuckled as he tossed away the belt and strutted over to his captive. "Take heed, boys! This is how you take a punishment like a man... although Arthur here is not a man, he's a little bitch and now I'm going to fuck him like one." Colm placed a foot on Arthur's side and turned him onto his back. Then he removed Arthur's pants and boots completely and knelt between his legs.

Colm gripped Arthur's shirt and tore a long strip out of it. Then he tied the piece of fabric tightly around the crimson hole in the other man's thigh. "Can't have you bleeding out on me yet, you'll miss the fun part." Arthur gulped and gazed longingly up to the starry sky, wishing that Colm would have just let him die.

In his addled mind Arthur knew that he had to do something, anything, before the situation would develop beyond the point of no return. He had to at least try and so he clung to his final lifeline. "Colm... you don't have to do this... Just let me go and I'll... tell Dutch not to mess with your... business again." A proud man by nature, Arthur hated to plead and he cringed inwardly at how close to a whimper his voice sounded.

Colm answered him with a toothy grin. "Now, that's not quite how this thing works, is it, Arthur? I can't let you go, just like that... You see, the only way to break such a big and burly brute like you is to show you how small and weak you actually are. And yeah, it's true... I probably don't need to rape you to teach Dutch a lesson... hell, I could think of a dozen other ways to cause you equal pain. But you know what? I want to fuck you. And after I'm done with you, I'm going to let every single man in this camp to fuck you as well."

Arthur's blue eyes widened in pure horror at the man's words. He felt panic settle in as Colm ordered one of the thugs from before to drag his upper body back onto the table. Arthur muffled a cry as he was once again forced to put weight onto his bad leg. Then Colm re-shackled him so that his arms rested now in front of his head instead of behind his back. Knowing what would come next, Arthur clasped the opposite edge of the table and tried in vain to pull himself away from his captor.

"Bad dog," Colm exclaimed and slapped Arthur across his belt-beaten backside, extracting a pained hiss from the younger man. Then the gang leader took a step back to unbuckle his belt, letting his pants fall down to his knees. Arthur stiffened as he heard the unmistakable chink and rustling of fabric. His heart hammered so fast that he feared, or rather hoped, that it would burst through his chest. Arthur had never been so terrified in all his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every withdrawal it felt like Colm was ripping away a part of Arthur's soul.

Colm slipped a hand underneath Arthur's shirt and raked his chipped fingernails down the man's spine, leaving behind a column of angry red welts. Enjoying the violent shiver that pulled from his captive, Colm then retreated his hand and spat into it, loudly. While spreading his saliva into the cleft between Arthur's slashed cheeks, Colm placed his lips against the man's ear and whispered, "You haven't made much noise this evening, boy. I'm about to change that."

Arthur knew very well that this joke of a lubrication was not meant for his comfort but to ease Colm's own passage. Shuddering at the man's clear promise of pain and his alien touch, Arthur did his best to steel himself against the inevitable and squeezed his eyes shut. Colm spat again, this time working his hand around himself and finally positioning his tip against Arthur's entrance.

For a few heartbeats, the world around them stilled and went completely silent. Only the sense of touch remained. In the night's chill Arthur could feel his own rapid pulse, Colm's rough hands on his hips and the sharp wooden edge underneath his palms. He gripped it harder, held his breath, and waited.

Then with a one forceful thrust, Colm pushed through and past the ring of muscle, burying himself all the way to the hilt. This time Arthur couldn't stop the cry of sheer terror and pain that was torn from his lips as he was penetrated. "Damn, Arthur, you're so tight... definitely a virgin ass. And you found your voice, too!" The gang laughed gleefully at their leader's comment, or perhaps it was the way their captive's face flushed in shame. Either way, Arthur didn't want to know. He wanted to die.

But Colm didn't give him a chance to die, nor time to adjust. Instead the gang leader took Arthur's hips quickly into a bruising grip and started to pound into him mercilessly. Shocked by the sudden repetitive intrusion, Arthur panicked and tried to scramble away from his captor. Colm reached a hand to seize him by his hair and Arthur cursed inwardly for letting it grow out as his head was pulled back.

Each thrust felt like being impaled with a barbwired bayonet and sent a jolt of pain down his injured leg. Arthur bit almost through his lower lip as he tried to stop the welling tears from falling down his cheeks. He had already lost the battle for screaming, he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry as well. He was still a man, goddamnit!

Pain itself was nothing new to Arthur. Hell, he almost considered it an old friend. Physical and mental, he'd had more than his share of both in his lifetime. He had been shot, stabbed and beaten, separately and simultaneously. His heart had been broken more times than he could count. But this... this was something different. With every withdrawal it felt like Colm was ripping away a part of Arthur's soul.

Arthur yelped in protest as the man suddenly pulled out of him completely. Colm, of course, took his reaction the wrong way. "You hear that, boys? The bitch likes it when I fuck him! ... Don't worry, Arthur, you'll have my cock back in your arse in no time. I just want to take you down there on the ground and watch your face as I breed you." With those words, Colm gripped Arthur's shirt and dragged him down from the table. It was easy, for the younger man had no strenght left in his legs to hold himself upright.

Arthur hit his tailbone as he fell to the cold, unforgiving surfice. He didn't get time to lament on that, however, as Colm was immediately on him again. Arthur tried to struggle as best he could, but Colm would have none of that, so he hit his captive in the head until his body went limp. Then he bent back Arthur's thighs and entered him for the second time.

Through the blood gushing in his head Arthur could hear and feel as Colm continued to pound into him, huffing and groaning. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the muddy image of Colm's rat-like face, staring down at him with sick hunger. Arthur gazed at him right back, trying to picture someone else in the place of this vile man. Colm's voice was gruff, but not nearly as husky as Arthur would have preferred it to be and the deep claw marks he tried to will onto the man's left cheek just would not materialize.

What little illusion Arthur had managed to conjure was quickly shattered as Colm's hand seized his throat and the man sped up his tempo, apparently nearing his completion. Arthur didn't really register Colm's thrusts anymore. His whole body was on fire and it was impossible to tell where the pain started and where it ended, or if it did at all.

Arthur looked down at his own limp member that bobbed pathetically in rhythm with Colm's movements. He would have no longer use for it, not after this. Not that he'd had for a long while now, he had not really felt much desire for the ladies ever since... Mary.

In the middle of a particularly harsh thrust, Colm suddenly punched Arthur into the gun wound on his thigh. They both yelled, Arthur from pain and Colm from pleasure and satisfaction at the other man's suffering. Then the gang leader shuddered violently and to his disgust Arthur could feel, albeit faintly, as something hot rushed into his body. Panting heavily and grinning in contentment, Colm pulled out of his captive.

With the corner of his eye Arthur caught a flash of red as Colm stood up and tucked himself back into his pants. "Thanks, sugar. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me." Pulling the greasy ropes of gray hair back from his face and readjusting his clothes, Colm backed away to lean against the table, admiring the waste he had laid before himself.

Arthur lay on the ground glassy-eyed and motionless, caught undecisive in a limbo between throwing up and passing out. His lower body felt like it had been torn apart, which was probably not so far from the truth. Judging by the warm trickles of liquid running down his buttocks and the insides of his thighs, Arthur suspected that he must have been bleeding pretty badly. He gulped down the bile that rose up to his throat as he thought of what else was there mixed into his blood.

Suddenly Arthur's eyes blinked back to focus and he became slowly aware of the gang still gathered around him, staring down at him. Some of them had pulled out their own manhoods, jerking off with hateful lust burning in their eyes. Some had already finished. One of the big thugs started to unbutton his tented pants and Arthur was soon filled with gut-wrenching fear as Colm's words from earlier rushed back to his mind. His heart thumping like that of a dying rabbit, Arthur quickly turned his head to look at his captor in the eye.

"Colm... please... n-no... no more... let me... go..." Arthur's plea came out as barely a soft sob. Something akin to regret flashed in the gang leader's gray eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. "Can't do that, Arthur dear. I promised these boys a good time tonight and I am a man of my word." Colm pulled a cigarette out of his breast pocket, lit it and took a drag. With the exhale he hollered, "He's all yours, boys! Have all the fun you want as long as you don't kill him!"

Arthur stared in hopelessness and disbelief. Then he felt a tug as the behemoth of a man dragged him up by the back of his shirt. Arthur whined as everything in his body protested against the movement. He started as the thug grabbed him by the rear and hoisted him up against one of the wagons in the camp, as if Arthur weighted nothing at all. Instinctively he fumbled his legs around the man and took in his appearance.

Big like a bull, the brute was bald and had the facial features of a bulldog. Snorting like a stallion in heat, the man's dumb black eyes bore into Arthur's own fearful ones. Then the smaller man felt something huge nudging against his entrance and adrenaline kicked him in the stomach like a wild bronco. In a sudden last rush of rebellion Arthur gathered what little saliva, or rather blood, he had in his parched mouth and spat it into the other man's face.

The thug answered by bellowing like an animal and smashing Arthur's head against the side of the wagon. That did it for the smaller man. Arthur's body went slack and his vision swam before his eyes rolled back into his skull. His hearing followed en suite, escorted by the sounds of Colm scolding his man for possibly killing their captive and his own last horrified scream as his torn passage continued to be ravaged.

Weakened by the substantial bloodloss and unable to stand the pain any longer, Arthur finally allowed himself to give up the fight. Lastly thinking of long black hair and sun-kissed skin, he slipped over the edge and fell into blissful oblivion.

* * *

The bliss didn't last for too long. Through the veil of unconsciousness Arthur could hear snippets of Colm and the gang laughing, singing and moaning. Later on, someone was pounding him against the table once more and Arthur could see Colm sitting on a chair next to him, writing something on a creased piece of paper. "You having fun, sugar?"

Arthur had no idea how many men used him that night, but when they were done with him, he recalled being dressed up and lifted onto the back of a horse. His own loyal Eliza, he later found out, when he regained just enough consciousness to realize that the mare was leading him through a dark forest. "Please... take me... home...," he wheezed before slumping against the mustang's warm neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Oh please, dear Lord, don't let it end like this,' he thought.

John was on the watch that night. It suited him just fine, for he couldn't have slept even if he would've had the permission to. Nursing a cup of strong coffee, he tried to push the ominous thoughts into the back of his mind, but couldn't shake off the feeling of sick worry.

It would have been Arthur's turn to guard the camp, but the man had not ridden back with Dutch and Micah at the early sunset, nor during the long hours that had followed. John had confronted Dutch about it, but the gang leader had assured him that the meeting had gone a lot smoother than expected and that Arthur could have been making his way back at that very moment. Well, he hadn't.

Even Dutch had thought it odd not having found his sniper at their agreed meeting place, but had brushed it off as yet another one of those quirks by Arthur "The Golden Boy" Morgan and simply assumed that the man had already gone his own merry way, as he so often did. John told himself that if Dutch van der Linde had walked out of an eye to eye with his mortal enemy unscathed, there was no reason to believe that a different kind of fate had befallen his backup guy.

John let out a long sigh, poking at the crackling fire. Maybe he was just paranoid. After all, it was not uncommon for Arthur to linger after a mission, doing only God knows what, and return hours or even days later. Hell, the man preached endlessly about how important it was to not let anyone follow them back to the camp.

It was nearly dawn and things had remained calm throughout the night, distressingly so. To ease his anxiety John decided to take a short stroll around the surrounding patch of forest. He dumped away the lukewarm remnants of his coffee and grabbed his rifle. The air was chilly with humidity. John pulled his black overcoat tighter around himself as he strutted across the damp hummocks, dodging branches covered by the morning dew.

A few early birds were tuning in their vocals cords, but otherwise the slowly stirring world was completely still and silent. John came to a halt, taking a moment to fill his lungs with the fresh open air and revel in the peace and quiet. A rare luxury in the kind of dangerous life they led. Growing up, Arthur had taught him to appreciate the mother nature and enjoy her gifts before the so-called civilization would run her over, cutting down every tree and driving animals to extinction.

Arthur... John's heart lurched at the thought of the older man. He owed Arthur so much. Not only for raising him with Dutch and Hosea, and saving his pathetic hide more times than he could count, but also for taking care of Abigail and Jack in his absence. John knew better than to expect Arthur to forgive him for suddenly disappearing like that without an explanation. For nearly a whole year, no less. Hell, he hadn't even forgiven himself yet. There was absolutely no excuse for his selfish behaviour, but John hoped that some day Arthur would at least give him the chance to tell the reason _why_.

Some time before Abigail had dropped the bomb about her pregnancy, John had started to develop these strange... inclinations towards Arthur. He had of course always liked and admired the man. When Dutch had handpicked John off the streets at the tender age of twelve, he had immediately hit it off with the second youngest member of the Van der Linde gang. Whereas Dutch had been a father figure and Hosea an uncle turned mother hen, Arthur barely in his twenties had been the funny, confident and good-looking big brother who John had looked up to and worshipped as an idol.

And now, almost fifteen years later, Arthur was still all of those things. Well, maybe he was grumpier and not as much of a jokester as before, but how could anyone blame the guy after the amount of pain and suffering he had gone through in his life. Arthur was still every bit as handsome as the day John had first met him, maybe even more so with his matured looks. Combined with a swagger the size of his rifle he could make literally anyone swoon. Over the years John's feelings for Arthur had grown past simple brotherly affection and into something a lot more complex.

John still loved Abigail in his own way and was grateful that out of all the people at least she had found it in her heart to forgive him. But ever since the birth of his alleged son, John had not been able to bring himself to share her bed, not even when she had offered. No matter how hard he tried to think about her full lips and soft feminine curves, it was the vision of ocean blue eyes, large calloused hands and a rough voice moaning out his name that brought John to his release in the privacy of his own tent. John knew his fantasies to be unnatural and queer, but they just wouldn't go away.

The combination of his own confused feelings and the pressure to act as a father to the then one-year-old Jack had eventually grown too much to bear and so he had fled. John had never meant to leave permanently, no, he had simply needed some time and space to clear out his head. But as the days, weeks and finally a month had rolled by, the harder it had become for him to return to the mess he had left behind.

And what a damn fine mess it was. Arthur despised him and half the gang hated his guts, not that John cared too much about the general opinion. Dutch had pardoned him, but remained doubtful and John couldn't blame him. And then there was the matter of Jack, who could belong to literally any man in the camp. For all he knew, the boy could be Arthur's and a part of John wished that he was. John himself was sure as hell not ready to be a father and he knew that Arthur would be a better papa to the boy than he ever could. After all, Arthur had already done most of the job so far.

John's feelings towards the older man had not died down during his leave, quite the contrary. John knew that if... when Arthur came back, he would have to sit the big guy down and have an actual serious discussion with him about things. John shuddered at the thought. Easier said than done...

John continued to walk deeper into the forest, gradually making his way around the camp. Suddenly he heard the faint sound of hooves against soft moss and stopped in his tracks. John tried to reason with himself that the comer was most likely Arthur, finally returning home from his own little adventures. But then again, why would Arthur ride through the middle of the woods and not make use of the clear path leading to the camp?

Gripping his gun tighter, John crept closer to the source of the noise. He jumped when the early morning calm was disrupted by a loud and heavy thud, followed by a pained groan and the whinnying of a horse. "Who's there? Show yourself," John shouted, aiming to the direction of the possible threat. He waited for a short while and after no-one neither answered nor moved, he went on to investigate the suspicious sounds.

John came to the top of a small hill. Looking down, he did indeed spot a horse and recognized it immediately. It was Arthur's bay mustang. The mare was sniffing and nibbling at the messy heap of blond hair, blood and disheveled clothes slumped on the ground right next to it. Realization hit John like a kick in the stomach and he bolted into action, running and sliding down the slippery, leaf-covered slope. "Arthur!" 'Oh please, dear Lord, don't let it end like this,' he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had never felt so powerless.

When John reached Arthur's limp form, he knelt beside the older man and gently shook his shoulder. "Arthur?" The man didn't stir, so John turned him onto his back. Taking in the other's appearance, John's breath hitched and he bit back a cry of despair.

Arthur was a complete and utter mess. His face was basically a one big bruise. Both of his eyes were black and one of them was swollen shut. Dried rivulets of blood ran down from his nose and mouth. On his neck Arthur wore multiple sets of fingerprints and sings of strangulation. Through the man's poorly buttoned shirt John could see that the abuse had continued all the way down Arthur's chest and stomach.

John scrambled to take Arthur's hand in his own and bent back his wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, but definitely still there. John let out a small sigh of relief, thanking the heavens above that Arthur Morgan was such a fighter. He glanced up to the horse that was looking at him quizzically. "Thank you for bringing him home," John whispered, nodding at the animal. That was when he noticed the wide patch of blood on the saddle. John flicked his eyes back to Arthur, frantically scanning his body for major injuries. He couldn't find anything obvious.

Then John realized to his absolute horror that the inner sides of Arthur's pants were damp with a dark red substance. He didn't have to guess twice what that was. What had they done to the poor man, castrated him? Bile rose to John's throat but he gulped it down, forcing himself to think and weight on his options.

Arthur would need medical attention at this very instant. Making him walk was clearly out of the question. John didn't want to cause Arthur any more pain or damage and the man was out of it in any case. There was also no way John could carry Arthur all the way to the camp, the older man was so much heavier than him. John could try to hoist Arthur onto the back of the horse, but doubted that he would be successful, at least not without ending up hurting his friend. He could also run back to the camp to get help, but didn't want to leave Arthur alone in case the man woke up or decided to die on him.

There was only one option left, John would have to call for help. He grabbed his rifle, aiming towards the slowly illuminating sky and pulled the trigger three times. The shots echoed in the silence of the early morning and John hoped that three of them would be enough to alert the people back at the camp. Arthur's mare was startled and it let out an angry high-pitched neigh, but didn't run away. "Sorry, girl," John murmured, lowering his gun to the ground. Then he shook the overcoat off his shoulders and wrapped it around Arthur's cold body.

Luckily it didn't take long until John heard hurried footsteps coming from the direction of the hilltop and Charles' voice calling out, "Who's there?" John sighed, relieved that it was Charles and not someone like Micah or Bill. "It's me, John," he shouted back. "It's Arthur, he... he needs help!" Finally Charles emerged to the top of the hill, stopping and staring down at them with wide eyes. "John? ... Arthur? ... Oh my God..." The man snapped out of his trance and ran down the slope, falling on his knees to the opposite side of Arthur. "What happened? Is he... ?"

John looked at him with a grim expression. "He's still alive. I think the O'Driscolls got him. I think they... Well, I don't know yet, but I think he's bleeding pretty badly." To emphasize his words, John lifted the black coat just enough to give Charles a glimpse of the bloodstains on Arthur's pants. Charles let out a choked sound. "We have to get him to the camp," he then said and went on to hook Arthur by his armpits. "Here, I'll take his upper body, you take his legs." John hung his gun around his shoulder and grabbed Arthur by the calfs. He was grateful for Charles' calm orders.

They carried Arthur's limp body through the woods, stumbling over tree roots and cursing at the man's sheer muscle weight. The horse walked right beside them, nibbling at one of the sleeves that hung from the coat draped over Arthur's front. "Hey, get your damn teeth off my coat," John exclaimed half-heartedly. He was way too anxious to actually care.

They were about halfway to the camp when all of a sudden Arthur chose that moment to return back to consciousness. One bleary blue eye shot open and locked to John's surprised stare. Clearly disoriented, Arthur panicked and started to struggle against their grip on him. "N... no! No! No, no, no, no...," he chanted with a broken voice. If a knocked out Arthur was a bit of a handful, then a kicking and screaming one, no matter how severely injured, was a damn near impossible cause. John's hold on one of Arthur's legs slipped and as a reward he got the sharp edge of a leather boot to his jaw.

John cried out, letting go of the other leg as well to clutch his own chin. Arthur howled from the pain when his lower body hit the ground. Charles held on to Arthur's arms, watching the almost comical scene before him. "Shhh... It's alright, Arthur, you're safe now... We're just trying to help you... We're taking you back to the camp, back home," he murmured soothingly into the resisting man's ear, but then oomphed when Arthur somehow managed to elbow him into the stomach. Charles doubled over and Arthur fell with a thud. He shrugged off the coat and started to crawl away from the two men.

Lamenting their injuries, John and Charles stared at each other wide-eyed and flabbergasted. Then they turned to look at Arthur who was dragging himself painstakingly back towards the thicker forest, trying desperately to escape whatever threat he saw in his head. Turning back to Charles, John gave him a signal to wait and the other man nodded. Then John walked over to Arthur and knelt down next to him, stopping the man's slow progress by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Arthur jerked away from the touch violently, almost as if burned. "Don't you fucking touch me," he bellowed and tried to have a swing at John who managed to dodge the hard-thrown punch, but only just. He was taken aback by Arthur's strong reaction. The man was clearly terrified. He was shaking and his one open eye was moving wildly back and forth on John's face, searching for something. John wondered what in the seven hells those animals had done to his... to Arthur to make him so scared. The man had been hurt more times than John could count, but never had he acted this way.

Suddenly Arthur shrieked in agony and crawled into a fetal position. John's mind was filled with sickening worry, then determination. They had to get Arthur to help and safety. "Arthur... It's me, John. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise... But you're bleeding, we need to get you to the camp or else you'll die... Please, Arthur, you have to trust me... It's okay, you're going to be okay..." John spoke with a low, calming voice, the same kind he would use to appease a skittish horse. The kind of voice Arthur had once taught him. John gulped, waiting anxiously as the man seemed to mull over his words.

The scary part was that even if Arthur survived, John had no idea if the man would ever be "okay" again. He was not yet entirely sure about the nature of the damage the O'Driscolls had inflicted upon the older man, but if it was what he feared and strongly suspected... John didn't want to even think about the physical and mental consequences. He felt white hot rage banging at the gates of his consciousness, but managed to keep his temper in check. There would be a time for retaliation later. Right now he had to remain calm and collected for Arthur's sake.

The man in question must have reached some kind of conclusion, for his tense body loosened up somewhat. But the answer Arthur whimpered through the fingers now cradling his face was not one that John would have hoped for. "Do... whatever you want... with me... I... don't care... anymore." Defeated, the poor man twitched and trembled for a short while in obvious pain, hands fumbling to cover injuries, before he succumbed once more to the darkness.

John had never felt so powerless. Clenching his fists, he glanced over to Charles who stood exactly where John had left him. The man was looking at Arthur with the kind of concerned, knowing expression that made John's skin crawl and his heart fill with dread. They really had to hurry now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was all Dutch's fault, anyway.

The entire gang was armed to their teeth and taking cover when the trio finally reached the camp. Dutch was in the front line as a good leader always should, protecting his flock. 'Didn't manage to protect this one,' John thought bitterly as he glanced down to the mess of a man who's legs he was once again carrying. This time John had wrapped the black overcoat tighter around Arthur's body, not wanting to add hypothermia to the man's undoubtedly long list of ailments.

Recognizing the comers, Dutch stood up behind the barrel he had used as a cover and signaled the rest of the gang to lower their weapons. "Charles? John? It's about damn time, I was going to send Sean to check up on you two. What the hell happened th-" The gang leader paused mid-sentence when he noticed the limp human form the two were carrying between them. "Who's that," he asked, sounding apprehensive. "Who is that? Answer me!" Dutch started to walk towards the pair in long, hurried strides. John and Charles stopped and stared at each other. Neither uttered a word, they didn't need to.

Dutch came beside them, his dark eyes running fervently up and down the unconscious man's body before coming to a halt at his face. "A... Arthur? Oh my God, Arthur! My son! What... what happened?!" Dutch's hands shot forward to cradle Arthur's battered head and pull muddy, bloody strands of hair away from his eyes. John grit his teeth, suddenly finding the thought of anyone, especially Dutch, touching Arthur ever again unbearable. This was all Dutch's fault, anyway.

"Well, what would you think that happened to him? Colm Fucking O'Driscoll, that's what happened," John snapped, unable to control his temper any longer. Dutch turned to look at him with a reserved expression. "That is highly unlikely. I just made peace with Colm." The two men stared at each other, the tension between them so thick that one could've cut it with a knife. John was going to reply with something snarky when Charles interrupted him, giving voice to what John had thought and feared but not dared to say out loud. "Dutch... They raped him. He's bleeding to death as we speak."

The color on Dutch's face changed from slightly red to deathly pale and then to bright scarlet. It would've been funny, had the circumstances been less grave. "N-no... No... You are joking. Not my boy...," he whispered, shaking his head. He looked from Charles to John and then back at Charles again. Their serious expressions must have convinced the gang leader that they were indeed not kidding. Dutch looked mortified and a heavy, uncomfortable silence fell between them.

Suddenly Arthur let out a pained groan in his sleep, reminding the other three of his existence. That seemed to kick Dutch back into action. "Quickly, take him to his tent and roll down the blinds. I'll go get Miss Grimshaw." He turned around to run beforehand back to the camp. "Don't you think that Hosea would be a better choice in this particular case," Charles called after him. Dutch stopped in his tracks and turned to throw a worried glance over at Arthur's limp body. Suddenly the gang leader looked decades older. "Perhaps you are right, son," he replied with a tired voice and then he was gone.

John and Charles followed right behind Dutch, scurrying Arthur to his tent so fast that they almost fell over a couple of times on the way. The whole gang stared at them questioningly as the pair carried on with their grim business, but luckily most of them had the decency to keep their mouths shut. John and Charles paid no attention to the mockingly called out "what's wrong with the cowpoke" as they lowered Arthur carefully down onto his bed. Hosea was already there in the tent, opening a bag full of medical supplies. He looked at Arthur with a deeply concerned frown, but said nothing.

When John and Charles were ready transforming the tent into as private as possible, Hosea ordered them to leave him alone with Arthur. John unwrapped his black overcoat from around Arthur's body to allow Hosea easier access. Then he laid one last worried look at the poor man on the bed and stepped out of the tent, closing the flap door behind him.

John let out a heavy, long held sigh and retreated to a nearby tree, leaning against the rough bark. He didn't want to wander too far off in case there would be news about Arthur's state. 'Oh, Arthur,' John thought and held his coat close to his face, examining it. The black leather was mottled with dark red spots and smelled still slightly of its latest wearer. Glancing around, John pressed the material to his nose and inhaled. The mixture of his own sweat, the coppery tang of blood and Arthur's musk filled his sinuses. The smell was oddly comforting and John suppressed a groan.

He then flung the coat onto his shoulder and reached to his back pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. John lit one and realized that his hands were shaking. He took a long, heartfelt drag and let the nicotine work its magic, trying desperately to calm down. Staring into nothingness, John couldn't help but wonder if he had found Arthur too late. What if the man died? John couldn't stand the thought. He slid down to sit on the ground with his back against the tree and threw the coat around himself. Dumping the cigarette, John pulled up his knees and hugged them to his chest.

Hell, what if John would've never taken that walk? Arthur would still be lying in that forest, suffering and all alone. He would have bled to death and eventually the gang would have found his cold, abused corpse. Or maybe not. Maybe the man would have simply disappeared and they would have never learned of Arthur Morgan's fate.

John was torn from his depressing thoughts by the sounds of Hosea stepping out of Arthur's tent and calling out for Dutch. The gang leader was there in the blink of an eye. John was not close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation, so he slowly stood up and crept behind the corner of the tent. He needed to know. "How is my son," John heard Dutch ask with an anxious voice. Hosea answered him with a deep sigh. "Well... He is alive, at least. I managed to stop most of the bleeding. He has a gun wound on his thigh, but luckily the bullet went straight through and missed the artery. But Dutch..."

There was a short and yet somehow meaningful pause before the man continued with a slightly lower voice. "He needs stitching... _down there_ , and quite frankly I do not possess the required skill. I don't want to end up making matters worse for him. He needs to see a real doctor and since there is no way we can move him in this state, you're going to have to get one here." Another pause, this time a longer one. "Dutch... They tore him apart."

John had heard enough. He stepped out from his hiding. "I'll get him a doctor. There should be one in Rhodes." Dutch's face was whiter than the whitest of sheets, but it turned into an angry shade of red when he saw John. "Son, didn't I ever tell you to only eavesdrop on people who you are going to rob? I was just about to come to you, I want know why you left your post this morning. You know damn well that it's not allowed." John was taken aback by the sudden, seemingly irrelevant questioning. He felt his temper rising. "It was quiet... And if I hadn't, we wouldn't have even Arthur's body to bury!"

Dutch raised a ringed finger to point it at John and was about to say something scolding when Hosea interrupted him by placing a hand on his arm. "Dutch, Arthur really needs that doctor as soon as possible." The gang leader hesitated at the older man's words and lowered his hand, slipping it into his vest instead. He pulled out a sizeable wad of dollar bills and held it at John. "Give these to the good doctor. Use any means necessary to bring him here." Eyes still nailed to Dutch's, John took the money. "Didn't you tell us to not cause any trouble in Rhodes?" He turned and started to walk away.

"Yes, well, this is an emergency. Ride hard, son... And take Charles with you, the man has a better way with words," Dutch called after him. John gritted his teeth and hunched his shoulders at the remark. He found Charles at the hitching posts, taking care of Arthur's mustang. "Let's go. Arthur needs a doctor," John grunted and went on to saddle up his own steed. Charles stared at him with an unreadable expression and then extended his arm to pass him a folded piece of paper. "John... I found this in Arthur's saddlebag. It's a message. I think that you should read it."

Buzzled, John took the paper and unfolded it. The letter was short and said:

**_Dutch,_ **

**_Had some fun with your boy. Me and the gang. He screamed when I fucked him. If you ever cross paths with me again, the scarface will be next._ **

**_Colm_ **

John didn't say anything. He crumpled the piece of paper and shoved it into his back pocket. He had a feeling that he would need it as evidence later.

* * *

In Rhodes Charles explained the situation to the doctor, leaving out a few strategic details. The suspicious doctor was not impressed by their money, but John's promise to not kill him and his family if he came along convinced the man to ride with them back to Clemens Point. The rest of the day John spent helping out with the camp chores, doing anything to distract himself from the muffled cries that echoed from Arthur's tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was what he was now. A goddamn victim.

As soon as Arthur stirred, he was claimed by the shock of crippling pain. Every single muscle in his body screamed in white hot agony and he gasped for breath, paralyzed. His head felt like it was going to split in two, and so did his rear. Had he been able to take a look, he wouldn't have been surprised to find his whole lower half in literal flames. Hot tears welled to the corners of his eyes as the memories flashed through his mind. He remembered everything.

Arthur gulped down a sob and some bile with it. Slowly he began to grow aware of his surroundings. He was laying on his stomach on something soft, presumably a bed. His head was propped up on a pillow and his body was covered with a blanket from the waist down. The materials scratched and itched against his raw, overly sensitive skin.

Suddenly Arthur heard a rumbling snore and realized that there was someone beside him, holding his hand. The stranger's hand was rough and long-fingered, not as wide as his own but still definitely a man's. A spark of fear lit up in Arthur's mind and he forced his eyes open, fighting the blinding headache. He was greeted with the blurry image of John Marston on his knees and leaning against the bed, his head resting in the space between the edge and Arthur's hip. The man was fast asleep.

Relieved, Arthur let himself breathe again. When his eyes finally came into focus, he bent his neck to have a better look at the younger man. Sporting a thick stubble, John appeared at least ten years older than his actual age and the deep dark circles around his eyes told of several restless nights. How long had the man sat there by Arthur's bedside? Although he would never admit it out loud, Arthur was touched by this expression of caring and revelled in the comforting warmth of John's hand in his own. He felt himself relaxing somewhat and slowly slipping back under the waves of sleep.

But the second Arthur let his eyes fall shut, he was startled back to full awakeness as John let out a distressed whine and the man's gentle hold on his hand turned into a vice grip. After recovering from his near heart attack, Arthur realized that the younger man was simply having a bad dream. "M... Mars... ton...," he croaked and gave the other's hand a weak reassuring squeeze. Suddenly John's eyes shot open and the man yelped in surprise, stumbling backwards and falling onto his arse to the ground. Arthur would have laughed at the younger man's stunned expression.

John glanced around nervously, as if checking if anybody had seen him. Arthur's heart sank a little at the thought that the younger man would be ashamed of holding his hand, but he pushed the feeling aside. "H-hey...," he offered as a feeble greeting, looking at the dazed man sprawled on the earthy floor. It seemed to dawn on John only just now that the older man was actually awake. His eyes widened and he rushed to Arthur's side. "... Shit! Arthur! Hey... You're awake! How are you feeling? ... Did I hurt you?"

Arthur grinched, overwhelmed by the younger man's incoherent babbling. His mouth was parched and instead of trying to answer any of the man's questions with a throat drier than a bloody desert, he asked for water. For a second, John looked buzzled. "... Water? ... Of course, water! You must be thirsty. Here, drink this," he then said, reaching for a tin cup from the nearby table and handing it to the older man. Arthur propped himself painfully onto his elbows and took the offered cup, rasping a thanks. Trying to hide how badly his hands were shaking, he downed the drink in one go.

There were several types of herbs mixed into the water. It tasted vile, but Arthur hardly cared. After he was finished, he passed the now empty cup back to John and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. One drop of the herbal water escaped from the corner of his lips and he tried not to pay attention to the way John's eyes followed its journey down his jaw and throat, stopping at his collarbone. "One of Hosea's special cocktails... We've been giving you a shot once every day," the younger man explained with a slightly shallow voice.

Arthur shivered and noticed for the first time that he was wearing no clothes underneath the low riding blanket. Suddenly feeling very exposed and vulnerable, he buried his face into the tangle of his arms and curled his back. John seemed to get the hint. "Are you cold? You were sweating earlier, so I thought...," the younger man trailed off, gripping the hem of the blanket and pulling it so that it came to cover all but Arthur's head. The older man hummed in appreciation.

"Are you hungry," John then asked softly as he pulled up a chair next to Arthur's bed and sat down on it, leaning forward on his arms. Arthur shook his head quietly. He felt no growling in his stomach, only the hollow pain in his guts. "Yeah well, Miss Grimshaw is most likely going to force some soup down your thro-" Suddenly desperate to change the subject, Arthur snapped his head up a little too quickly and regretted it immediately. He yelped as something akin to a lightning bolt coursed through his brain, followed by a strong wave of nausea.

John winced at him sympathetically and reached for a metal bucket from underneath the bed. At the sight of the bucket Arthur's eyes widened and he swallowed down the bile, covering his head with his hands. John stared at him questioningly, but said nothing and slowly lowered the bucket back down to the ground. When Arthur was sure that he was not going to throw up after all, he raised his head again, this time slower, to meet the younger man's concerned gaze. "H-how... how long was I out," he asked, cringing inwardly at his scratchy voice and the flinch in the other's expression.

With a deep sigh, John dipped the brim of his hat lower onto his face and crossed his arms. It was almost as if the man was trying to mentally protect himself from something. Arthur gulped, knowing full well that he probably looked just as horrible as he felt. "It's been almost a week since... since I found you. You've been in and out in short intervals ever since. I'm not surprised if you don't remember, they bashed your head pretty badly... Got a concussion among the other... the other... things. We got you a doctor from Rhodes."

Arthur shuddered violently at the memory. He had been unfortunate enough to wake up in the middle of the procedure. The doctor had panicked and tamed him by forcing at least half a bottle of whiskey down his throat. "Yeah, I remember the needle. Remind me never to go to a doctor again." John's eyes shot upwards. The man looked aghast and then remorseful, as if he had done something wrong. As if he hadn't saved Arthur's life. "I remember kicking you in the face. I reckon we are even," Arthur said with a playful tone, trying to lighten up the mood if even just a little bit.

To his relief the younger man caught his meaning and answered with a small, crooked smile. "You also beat the winds out of Charles and tried to run... well, crawl away from us. You are not a very easy victim to help, Morgan." Arthur's face fell at the comment. That was what he was now. A goddamn victim. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know why I did it. I guess I was just..." ... scared.

They fell into a long silence, both men lost in their own gloomy thoughts. Suddenly John buried his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking. "Gosh... Arthur, you scared me... I thought that you would die... And what they did to you... If I hadn't found you..." Arthur felt a pang of sympathy for the younger man and reached to place a comforting hand on the other's knee. "Hey, hey, hey... I'm still here, ain't I," he murmured soothingly.

It was the absolutely worst possible moment for the flap door to fly open and Micah Bell to step into the tent, escorted by a bright rush of sunlight. "Oh hey Johnny, I didn't know that you were still here." John bolted up from his chair, fists clenched on his sides. "Fuck off, Micah," he snarled.

The man in question raised his palms in front of his face as a defensive gesture. "Ohh I'm sorry, did I interrupt something? I just wanted to have a quick word with our Arthur here, seeing as he is awake. Run along now, boy, the grown-ups are talking. I would say men, but I hear that dear Artie is no longer a man... The cow finally poked you back, eh?" Arthur's cheeks burned with shame. He glanced over at John who looked livid and ready to rip Micah's head clean off.

"Shut the hell up! You don't know what you are talking about! There is no way I am leaving him alone with _you_. Whatever you have to say to Arthur, you can say it in front of me," the younger man bellowed. He moved to stand in front of Arthur and splayed his arms, as if protecting the older man. As much as he was grateful for John for taking his side, especially now when he himself was in no condition to fight back, Arthur felt curious as to what Micah would have to say.

"It's okay, Marston. Go have a shave and some sleep, you look like shit. Hell, you probably look worse than me. Ask Miss Grimshaw to bring me some of that soup, I'm feeling that hunger now." John turned to stare at him in the eyes, shocked and outraged. Arthur tried to pull his most convincing grin, knowing that it probably resembled neither. "But... but _Arthur_...," the younger man tried, bewildered, but Arthur shook his head. "No buts. Just go, alright? I'll be fine, trust me. What's he going to do, bore me to death?" He gave the man a wink. Micah snickered in the background.

John seemed to mull over his words before finally huffing and slumping his shoulders. "... Fine! But I'll be back to check on you soon." Arthur nodded. They shared a last lingering look before the younger man stomped sulkily out of the tent, intentionally crashing shoulders with Micah on the way. Arthur let his head fall back into the pillow, exhausted from talking so much. With the flap door closed behind John, the dimness and a heavy silence fell into the tent.

Closing his eyes, Arthur almost forgot that Micah was still in the same space with him. Then the realization hit him. He was alone with Micah Bell in a dark tent, practically immobile and completely defenseless. Butt naked, nonetheless. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Fear prickled at the borders of his mind, but he tried not to show it as he turned to look at the older man. "You had something to say?"

Micah flashed a toothy grin. "Indeed I do." Then he started to pace around the tent. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for what happened. I admit, it was an obvious trap and I should have known better. But then again... so should have Dutch, and you... You knew what you signed up for, didn't you. It wasn't even my idea, it was Mr. Pearson's. I merely threw it out there on the table and you guys took it. All I wanted was to make our lives just a little bit easier. It is not my fault that Colm didn't keep his end of the deal."

"In fact," the man continued, "I would say that getting yourself kidnapped was your own damn fault. You were our backup guy, the one safely hiding and watching from above as Dutch and I risked our necks down there. Yet somehow you still managed to get captured. Pathetic!"

"Fuck you, Micah," was the only thing Arthur managed to say in his defence. Micah's words were making too much sense to him, the older man spitting out the exact same thoughts that had been going around in his own mind. Suddenly Micah was right there next to Arthur's head, the man's hot breath ghosting against his ear. It reminded him of... no. Arthur shuddered in disgust and yelped as Micah grapped a hold of his hair, yanking his head back. The man's other hand came to cover Arthur's mouth.

"So yeah... I'm really sorry for what they did to you, but seeing as you are alive and already healing, I would say... no harm done, right? We tried something and it backfired, but we didn't really lose anything. I just wanted to make sure that you won't start telling any stupid lies about me to our boss. After all, you wouldn't want anything to happen to your dear Johnny boy or his little family, now would you? Accidents can happen, Artie. Am I making myself clear?"

As a response Arthur bit down on Micah's palm, hard enough to draw blood. The older man roared and let go of Arthur's hair to clutch at his injured hand. With a thud, Arthur's head fell back into the pillow. Micah rushed to take a peek out of the flap door, apparently afraid that someone had heard the noise and was coming to check on its source. When nothing happened, the man let out a relieved sigh and marched back to Arthur's bedside.

Micah snatched the blanket from Arthur's body and flipped him around on the bed, ignoring his agonized yelp. "I said," the older man growled, both hands strangling Arthur's throat, "Am... I... making... my... self... clear...?" Wheezing for breath and fighting back tears, Arthur nodded weakly. What else could he do? "Oh, good. I'm glad that we have a mutual understanding," Micah sneered and let go, leaving Arthur gasping and groaning. Clearly disgusted by the sight before him, the older man threw the blanket back to its place. With a last meaningful scowl, he left the tent.

For some time Arthur lay alone on the bed, hissing in pain at every little twitch and reflecting on Micah's words. When the delicious smell of soup wafted into his nose and the flap door opened for the umpteenth time that day, Arthur had never been so glad to hear Miss Grimshaw's domineering voice. "... Mr. Morgan! What in the God's name do you think you are doing on your back?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Morgan never cried, but that night he broke into hopeless tears.

Another week rolled by and Arthur remained bedridden. He could now lie on his back and even sit up for short periods of time, but standing and walking were still completely out of the question. For the sheer fear of Miss Grimshaw, Arthur dared not even try. The woman kept him in check and well fed. Hosea came twice a day to clean and re-dress his wounds. Arthur was eternally grateful to the older man for not making a fuss about it. His bathing was taken care of by Marston who had volunteered to the task. The younger man's motive was quite obvious, but Arthur didn't comment on it.

The rest of his time Arthur spent sleeping, sketching in his journal and listening to the babbling of his visitors. Almost all of the gang members took turns to sit by his side and fill his ears with lines of sympathy and encouragement. Arthur was getting sick and tired of their pity. It was like a fresh ray of sunshine when Abigail brought Jack to see him and Arthur promised to take the boy out fishing as soon as he got better. He felt guilty about John spending so much time with him, but Abigail didn't seem to mind. Arthur couldn't help but wonder about the relationship between those two.

Dutch was the only one who never actually talked to him. The gang leader only visited Arthur's tent when he thought that the younger man was asleep. For some reason Arthur let the older man believe in the illusion and kept his eyes tightly shut. He could feel Dutch's dark gaze on him as the man sat beside him still and silent, sometimes reaching to brush a strand of hair from his face. It was both unnerving and strangely soothing, rubbing a part in Arthur that longed for fatherly affection. At some point he would have to drop his little act and push the older man for answers, though.

When Arthur really did sleep, he was haunted by the visions of Colm and his gang. In his dreams Arthur was back at the O'Driscoll's camp, reliving through all of the humiliation, torture and abuse. Every time he would try to make a run for it and every time Colm would shoot him in the leg, over and over again. More often than not Arthur woke up to the sound of his own panicked screaming and found himself in the middle of his sweat-soaked sheets, shaken to the core.

One night after a particularly vicious nightmare, Arthur dug his journal from underneath his pillow and started to draw with trembling hands. The sketch was almost finished when he realized to his dismay that he was, in fact, drawing the face of Colm O'Driscoll. He tore the whole page out, crumbled it into a ball and threw it to the opposite wall of the tent. Arthur Morgan never cried, but that night he broke into hopeless tears.

* * *

John tiptoed towards Arthur's tent, carrying four bottles of beer in his hands. Everyone else was gathered around the campfire to enjoy each other's company and the warm, star-lit night of early summer. Despite Arthur's injuries, John didn't want the older man to miss out and so he had excused himself, receiving a round of knowing looks and nods. Sometimes he wondered if they all saw right through his words and actions, but couldn't bring himself to really care. Right now the only thing that mattered to John was making the big feller feel better about himself, if even just a little bit.

And goddamn, did the poor man need a pick-me-up. Now that the immediate risk of death had passed and Arthur's body was slowly starting to heal, John was more concerned about the man's mental health. Almost every night he woke up to the cries of despair echoing from Arthur's tent, and so did the rest of the camp, he reckoned. One time John could have sworn that he had heard the older man sobbing quietly. Never before had he seen or heard Arthur Morgan crying, not even when the man had been so impudently dumped by that... Mary Gillis.

What Colm and his men had done to Arthur must have felt at least a thousand times worse than any heart-shattering breakup. The thought made John feel sick to his stomach. Someone so proud and macho, violated in the most humiliating way... He couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of damage such a terrible ordeal had done to the poor man's psyche. A selfish part in John wondered if this traumatic experience would eventually cause Arthur to close up on all matters intimate. The same part cursed Colm O'Driscoll for perhaps forever ruining his chances with the older man.

John stopped dead in his tracks in front of Arthur's tent, mentally chastising himself. What a horrible man he was, having such improper thoughts about a fresh victim of violent abuse. This was definitely not the right time for John's own foolish desires, given that such an occasion should ever arise. Arthur was hardly out of the woods. Hell, the man's slow recovery could suffer a fatal setback at any given moment. And even if the poor man pulled through, he would still have a long and rocky road ahead of him, both physically and mentally.

John hung his head and closed his eyes in a silent vow. Just like every other storm on their path, they would weather through this one together. He would stand by Arthur's side and take care of his brother and best friend to the best of his abilities, just like the older man had done to him countless times. What other feelings John harbored for the man... well, they would simply have to wait. With a deep sigh, he opened his eyes and entered the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listening to the younger man's gentle snoring Arthur promised to himself that no harm would come the man's way.

Arthur heard the flap door opening and sat up in his bed. He was relieved to see that the comer was John and not, for example, the disagreeable Mr. Bell. After that first incident Micah had visited Arthur a couple more times, mostly to gloat at him and rib him for "just lazing about" while the man himself along with Sean and Bill had been slowly reviving the relations between the gang and those Gray boys. After everything their lot had done to that family, the mere idea sounded laughable at best and Arthur wanted no part in it.

He noticed the four beer bottles in John's hands. "Marston... You do know that Miss Grimshaw has strictly forbidden me all alcohol, right?" The younger man slumped into the chair next to Arthur's bed and placed the bottles carefully onto the ground. "Hush... What she doesn't know can not hurt her," the man replied and cracked open two of the bottles, handing one to Arthur who accepted the drink with a short bark of laughter. They sipped at their beers in a comfortable silence, watching the stars through a rolled up skylight window.

After a while Arthur started grumbling and squirming underneath his blanket. Sitting was a literal pain in the arse and he couldn't stay in the position for long. John took notice of his obvious discomfort. "You can lie down if you like, the second beer isn't going anywhere... and neither am I." Arthur stopped his fidgeting and turned to look at the younger man, slightly taken aback. "... Right," he choked out as a thank you and downed the rest of his drink in one go. Then he placed the empty bottle onto the bedside table and stretched out beneath the covers.

John leaned back in the chair, his dark gray eyes fixed again on the sliver of nightly sky. Arthur found himself admiring how they shined like two black beads against the pale moonlight. "So...," the younger man started after another moment of silence, "Is Dutch still not talking to you?" Arthur closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, nodding in response. "Yeah well... He doesn't talk much to anyone these days. He disappears on these long rides, sometimes in the middle of the night. It's to clear out his head, he says... I wonder what he's _really_ doing."

Arthur could hear the bitterness in John's voice and turned onto his side to face the younger man. "Don't you blame Dutch, John Marston. This," he waved his hand to refer at his condition, "was not his fault." But John seemed to have an entirely different opinion on the matter. The man's expression turned into one of pure rage before he jerked his head to look away and ran a shaky hand through the strands of his long black hair, seemingly trying to calm himself. He didn't turn to meet Arthur's concerned eyes as he suddenly hissed, "... He doesn't believe that it was Colm."

Arthur stiffened and then shuddered violently at the mentioning of that name. Overwhelmed by the rush of mixed emotions, he reached out to glutch at John's knee as reassurance. Though to comfort who, he wasn't sure. The younger man looked surprised as he slowly turned to stare at the hand. Arthur half expected him to swat it away, but instead the man placed a light, soothing palm on top of it. Then their eyes locked and for the smallest eternity everything outside their own little world in that tent ceased to exist.

Arthur felt heat creeping to his ears at the way John's dark eyes bore into his own. Eventually his nerves got the better of him and he lowered his gaze, drawing his hand back. But the younger man's stare never faltered and Arthur felt a sudden, desperate need to escape from it. He rolled onto his other side, now facing the wall of the tent. "... That doesn't make him quilty... It was my own damn fault...," he whispered resentfully after a moment of quiet reflection, more to himself than anyone else.

John must have heard him, though, at least judging by the wheeze of a hitched breath and the thud of an empty bottle hitting the carpeted ground. Arthur sensed that the younger man was going to say something, perhaps even yell at him, but whatever it was, he didn't want to hear it. So instead he continued, "It wasn't a trap for Dutch. Colm did it just to get... me. Wanted to make me a... a warning example. Hell, he didn't even interrogate me, only... only _used_ me like a... like a... a goddamn two-dollar whore!"

Arthur stopped talking when hot tears threatened to escape his eyes. Groaning in frustration, he curled into a fetal position. He was lying, of course. Colm had asked him a number of questions, but he would rather die than repeat them out loud to anyone, least of all to John. Arthur was grateful that for once in his life the younger man had the decency to keep his mouth shut and simply listen. Dragging in a few shaky breaths, he carried on, "I should have known better, should have been more careful... It was stupid to let them take me so easily."

"Arthur-," John's gruff voice started and Arthur could feel the younger man's warm hand on his arm. He shrugged it off, in that moment hating himself too much to be able to accept the gentle touch. "I tried to get away, John, I really did. But Colm, he... he shot my leg and... Oh God, who am I kidding... I should have tried harder, should have fought better... If I had, Dutch wouldn't have to carry this extra weight..." Arthur knew that he was now being nearly hysterical, but couldn't stop the devastating wave of guilt and shame that washed over him.

"Extra... what?! Arthur, please look at me," John pleaded and when Arthur wouldn't comply, the younger man came to hover sideways above his upper body. The man placed a hand on each side of Arthur's head and tried to peer at his face. Arthur kept his eyes nailed to the shadowed canvas wall. He felt John's hot breath against his cheek and neck. It smelled of cigarettes and beer. When the younger man spoke Arthur tried not to think about how alluring his husky voice sounded so close to his ear and how inexplicably _right_ it felt to have the man on top of him.

"Don't you dare try to blame this on yourself. How in the fuck could you have known? Hell, you are the one who's been wronged here! Dutch is the one who made the call, you were only following his orders. If anyone is to blame it is him. Him and Micah. And Arthur... What they did to you... Colm will pay with his fucking life, alright? They will all pay, I'll make sure of it."

Arthur felt panic kick in as Micah's name left John's lips and this time he turned his head to meet the younger man's burning, penetrating gaze. "You stay out of it, Marston," he hissed weakly, fighting the urge to blush under the other's scrutiny. John must have seen the flicker of worry in Arthur's eyes and misinterpreted it, for next the younger man jumped back and stumbled away from the bed. "Shit! ... Arthur, I'm sorry! ... I-I didn't mean to...," the man sputtered, wide-eyed and looking genuinely apologetic.

Arthur snorted as he slowly got up into a sitting position, running a hand across his face and tugging at his shirt. He was allowed to wear one now. "It's alright, John. Really. Just... don't get yourself involved, okay? ... Please." John stared at him with an incredulous expression, looking like the man was going to explode at any given moment. It was sort of endearing, Arthur mused to himself.

Sure enough, the younger man opened his mouth to say something, but Arthur cut him off with a wave of his hand and stretched out to grasp one of the two remaining beers from the ground. He uncorked the bottle, took a swig and wiped his mouth to the rolled up sleeve on his arm. "One man down is enough, right? I can't babysit you in this state, so I'm going to need you to act like a responsible adult and forget about any foolish ideas of revenge, alright? Can you do that for me, Marston?"

Still frozen in place, John didn't blink as he nodded in slow motion. After some more standing and staring the younger man seemed to find his voice again. "If I do... will you stop blaming yourself?" Arthur nodded in return, motioning at the chair. An obvious lie, but it would have to do for now.

They spent the rest of the night just like they had started it, drinking beer and watching the stars in each other's company. John was the first one to fall asleep, stretched out on a bedroll on the ground and covered within a heap of blankets, courtesy to Arthur. Listening to the younger man's gentle snoring Arthur promised to himself that no harm would come the man's way. To hell with Micah and Colm, he would not let that happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While underwater Arthur found himself wondering if he should indeed just let himself drown.

Nearly a month had passed. Arthur was finally able to stand more or less on his feet and move further than just the other side of his tent. He still needed someone to support him every step of the way, but at least he could now walk for short distances, as lame and bow-legged as his gait was. Arthur felt relieved beyond measure. Had this slight improvement to his condition presented itself with any more delay, he would have surely perished in that tent from the sheer boredom and a severe case of cabin fever.

The first thing Arthur wanted to do with his newly found mobility was to get himself well and truly cleaned. Although Marston had been helping him out with the kind of devotion the younger man had certainly never shown towards his own personal hygiene, there was only so much that one could do with a sponge, a bar of soap and a bucketful of water. Despite knowing better Arthur could still _feel_ the presence of Colm and his men all over and inside of his body, and he wanted to rub them off his skin until it turned raw and red.

A proper dip in the lake, that was what Arthur needed. He told as much to John one night after everyone else had gone to sleep and it was just the two of them awake in his tent again. Public nudity was an unavoidable part of the camping lifestyle, but Arthur was a private man and he didn't want the entire gang, especially Jack, to be exposed to the reality of the fingerprints and belt marks carved into his black and blue hide. It was bad enough that the boy's father witnessed the shameful evidence on his flesh every single day, alongside Hosea.

John seemed to understand. "Sure, Arthur," the younger man answered softly and then continued with a mischievous grin, "We are growing a habit of doing things behind everyone's back." Arthur flushed a little at that, but said nothing. Instead he flung his legs over the edge of the bed and slowly stood up, scrunching his face and hissing in the process. Once on his feet Arthur swayed slightly and John rushed to his side, throwing one of his arms over the set of younger, thinner shoulders. "Shhh... Easy there, buddy," the man rasped soothingly. "You alright? ... Okay, let's go."

Together they stepped outside of the tent and headed towards the lake. Neither the moon nor the stars were visible that night, covered by a heavy armada of dark brown clouds, and thus provided next to no light. John snatched a lantern from a hook on Dutch's tent and lit it. The tiny flickering flame illuminated their path as they half walked, half limped in the near pitch darkness. The camp was eerily silent. None of the usual snoring could be heard, only the lone hooting of an owl and the lazy ripple of the waves.

Fully aware of the difference in their build and weight, Arthur tried not to lean too heavily against the younger man. John didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, the man held him as though hellbent on half carrying him all the way to the shore. Arthur hated being treated like a bloody maiden. Hell, usually it was _him_ rescuing "damsels" like Marston from all kinds of distress. However, Arthur couldn't ignore the way every single step sent a shock of pain all around his nervous system and he wasn't enough of a fool to reject help when it was so freely given.

They made it to the water, but decided to continue a little way along the shoreline. There they would be out of the direct line of sight in case someone woke up back at the camp. They came to a halt at a spot where there was a single tall pine tree jutting from the beach and a large rock next to it. John placed the lantern onto the rock. It gave out just enough light for them to see what they were doing and made the black lake glimmer in shades of golden.

"Can you stand on your own," John asked and Arthur looked down to his feet as he concentrated on what his body was telling him. "Sure," he finally grunted with a nod. The younger man let go of his arm and went on to strip out of his own clothes. "Okay, good. I'll help you into the water when you're ready. Mind if I take a dip as well?"

Arthur found himself suddenly embarrassed and hesitating. Heat rose to his cheeks and he turned his head to stare pointedly away from the familiar scene of tanned skin, wiry muscle and dark hair that was being revealed. It was too much, too fast, too soon. His throat had gone dry as he choked out, "It's a free country." John chuckled something back, but Arthur barely heard it. What the hell was wrong with him? It was not as if they hadn't done this hundreds of times before. After all, they had bathed together ever since Arthur was a young man and John but a mere boy.

Arthur could feel keen eyes on him as the younger man looked at him expectantly. "... Well... Are you, uhh... Um... Are you going to take off your... your clothes? We don't have to do this, you know. We can head back if you've changed your mind." Oh, Arthur did want this. He wanted to be clean again. Slightly shaking his head, he turned his back completely and started to strip with slow, mechanical motions. First came off his shirt, then his pants and finally his briefs. Arthur tried to ignore John's sympathetic hiss as his backside came into view. He knew that he looked hideous.

Arthur rolled his clothes into a bundle and tossed it onto one of the bigger rocks on the beach. Now naked as the day he was born, he shifted nervously on his bare feet. He hadn't bothered to wear boots for such a short trip. "You ready?" John came to his side and took a hold of his arm again. Arthur couldn't stop the shiver that ran through his body at the skin to skin contact. The younger man's large hand was hot like an iron brand against his ribs, gently guiding him as they descended carefully into the water.

The temperature of the Flat Iron Lake was tolerable. Not quite yet warmed by the summer, but slowly getting there. Arthur allowed a small moan of contentment escape his lips as the water came to cover him from the waist down. Its coolness felt so good against his heated, stinging flesh. John cleared his throat noisily. "Right! ... So... Will you be alright now? Don't worry, I'll be right next to you." Arthur wanted to snap that he was not some goddamn invalid, but couldn't find it in himself to be mean to the younger man. Not after everything Marston had so selflessly done for him.

"Yeah, I should think so," Arthur replied instead and then turned to give a small but earnest smile. "Thank you... John." The man in question seemed taken aback and raised his hand to scratch at the back of his neck nervously. "Of course! ... Arthur, I... You would do the same for me." Arthur's throat grew tight and moisture gathered into his eyes at the thought of John having to go through the same horrors as he had. He wouldn't have wished such a horrible experience for anyone else, least of all for Marston. Overcome by emotion, he started splashing the water all over himself.

John seemed to get the hint and went on with his own washing. Arthur could still feel the younger man watching him, but pretended not to notice as he drenched himself thoroughly and rubbed his skin almost violently with the tips of his fingers. The motion seemed to trigger some kind of an afterthought in the other man. "... Shit." Arthur turned to look questioningly at John who suddenly waded back to the shore and started to rummage through his own clothes. "What is it?" The younger man's shoulders slumped when he apparently couldn't find what he was looking for.

"Forgot the damn soap. You stay here, I'll go get it. I'll leave the lantern for you. Try not to get yourself drowned, old man," John called out as he hastily pulled his pants over his feet. Arthur couldn't stop himself from smirking. "Says the _boy_ who can't even swim. You try not to trip over your own damn feet on the way. And watch out for any wolves." The younger man shot him a deadly glare, but there was humor in his voice as he snorted, "Ha ha. Very funny, Morgan." Then the man was gone and Arthur was left alone to stare at the yellowish expanse of water in front of him.

After a moment of hesitation he decided to wash his head properly as well and leaned face first into the lake. While underwater Arthur found himself wondering if he should indeed just let himself drown. An alarmingly weak knock of self-preservation in the back of his mind stopped him from opening his mouth, but he stayed submerged until he ran out of oxygen and his lungs felt like they would burst from the lack of it. When Arthur finally pulled back to the surfice, chest burning and gasping for breath, it took him a while to realize that the lantern behind him was no longer lit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur himself didn't feel like fighting for his life anymore.

John weaved his way slowly along the shoreline, trying not to fall over on the different sized rocks scattered here and there. His eyes were now a little more accustomed to the dark, but it didn't make the task that much easier. In retrospect he probably should have taken that lantern, but he hadn't wanted to leave Arthur all alone in the middle of darkness.

When John finally made it to Arthur's tent, he went straight to fetch the soap. To his frustration he couldn't find the bar next to the sponge and the bucket, nor in any of the other usual or obvious places. Where the hell was it? John kneeled down to check underneath the bed. The bar of soap wasn't there either, but what he did spot was a creased ball of paper. He reached out to grab the object and examined it in his hand. The material was thick and yellowed, most likely torn out of a book or a... journal. Arthur's journal.

John gulped in hesitation. He tried to reason with himself that if Arthur had discarded the page, its content couldn't hold much personal value to the man. Holding his breath, John unraveled the ball with slightly trembling fingers. He smoothed out the sheet against his thigh and let out a shocked gasp when he realized what he was staring at. A frighteningly detailed portrait of Colm O'Driscoll.

John himself had only seen the bastard a couple of times, but he could never forget about those rat-like features. 'Poor Arthur,' he thought. No wonder the man had ripped out and tossed away the page. In fact, John was surprised that Arthur hadn't thrown the damn thing into the campfire, as skillfully drawn as it was. It was serendipity that he hadn't, however, as now John could use the portrait as further evidence to convince Dutch of Colm's part in Arthur's kidnapping and assault.

John folded the sheet into a smaller size and shoved it into his back pocket to accompany the letter from Colm. Standing up, he suddenly remembered that they had ran out of the soap the previous evening. How could he have forgotten? In the morning he would have to make a trip to Rhodes to get a new bar, but perhaps Abigail could lend them some for tonight. Determined to get Arthur what he needed, John left the man's tent and headed towards Abigail's.

The woman was understandably cranky at being woken up in the wee hours of the night, but her sour face softened into a kinder, knowing expression when John apologized and explained the situation. "I'm sorry, I don't have any soap left either," she answered regretfully. "But there is usually some in Mr. Pearson's wagon, maybe you could try there?" John cursed inwardly, but thanked her anyway and promised to bring her a bar from the town as well. He paid one wary glance to the little boy sleeping soundly next to Abigail before excusing himself.

Just like when he had first left with Arthur, the same heavy, unsettling silence hung in the air as John tiptoed across the camp. Unlike most times there was no fire crackling in the pit at the center, but that was nothing to worry about. It was a warm summer night, after all. John only hoped that whoever was on the watch hadn't wandered too far off. They didn't need any surprise attacks, especially with Arthur who could barely stand on his feet, let alone defend himself. 'Hope he hasn't drowned yet,' John thought anxiously and made a mental note to hurry the fuck up.

He dared not disturb Mr. Pearson who lay sprawled out on a bedroll in the ground. Who knew if the camp cook would butcher _him_ into the next stew! Instead John sneaked right past the older man and climbed into the wagon to help himself. Luckily the soap was found with minimal noise and rummaging around, and John let out a long-suffered sigh. But as he slid down from the wagon and headed back to Arthur with the bar in tow, he suddenly got the strong gut feeling that something was truly horribly wrong.

A hollow fear settling into the pit of his stomach, John picked up his pace and tripped over a couple of times on the way. He saw from afar that the lantern had gone off and his heart started to hammer against his breastbone. It jumped up to his throat when he couldn't spot Arthur neither on the beach nor above the waves. "Arthur?! Hey, Arthur," John hollered, panicked. Fearing the worst, he didn't hesitate or care to strip out of his pants before rushing into the lake.

* * *

As soon as Arthur's mind registered the loss of light, he felt the cold, sharp tip of a blade digging into the skin on the small of his back. A gloved palm came from behind to cover his mouth and a familiar voice hissed into his ear, "Come with me, or I will ram this knife up your fucking ass." At first Arthur stiffened at the threat and the stinging pain, but upon recognizing his attacker he let out a tired sigh and forced his shoulders to slump, feigning indifference.

"I can't walk on my own, Micah. You know I can't. Why don't you just drown me here, you fucking bastard," Arthur drawled against the loose hand, trying to sound as bored as possible. But Micah wouldn't fall for his rather pathetic attempt at bluffing. "... Fine. Have it the hard way, Morgan," the older man snarled and jabbed him to the nape of his neck with the blunt end of the knife. Arthur's body went limp, his knees buckling underneath him and he crashed into the water. His vision swam before he was pulled back to the surface and back to reality by a hand gripping his hair.

Arthur couldn't do but gasp for breath and writhe in pain as Micah dragged him harshly by his wet mane back to the shore and deep into the woods. Once surrounded by nothing but the trees and their shadows, the older man slammed him to the ground, tied his wrists with a rope and gagged him with a bandana. Slowly regaining his strenght, Arthur tried to struggle back, but Micah kicked him in the head and kneeled down to sit onto his stomach. "Be a good boy now, or I will have to kill your _boyfriend_ as well. I promised to do that if you won't play along, remember?"

Arthur's eyes widened in shock and fear for John's safety. 'My... my _what_ ,' he thought briefly before focusing all of his attention to the knife now pointed at his face. Micah grinned maliciously and toyed with the blade, passing it from one hand to another. "You know... I didn't really plan on killing you. Well, not yet, at least. Hell, I actually took some real pity on you. But this... this is just too goddamn perfect! With you, all alone and butt naked, without your guns... And me, on guard duty... It is simply too good of an opportunity to pass on. No hard feelings, eh?"

While speaking Micah dragged the edge of the knife lazily along Arthur's chest and stomach, crisscrossing his skin with long, shallow cuts. Arthur bit his gag against the sharp pain, refusing to break eye contact. The older man snorted in amusement and continued, "When I saw you back there, I did think about drowning you at first... But that would've been too quick, too easy on you. You see, you've been such a gigantic thorn in my side ever since I started riding with you guys. Trying to turn Dutch against me... Oh no, cowpoke! I'm going to take my sweet, sweet time with you."

As if to emphasize his words, Micah ran the blade across Arthur's ribs and then stopped, pressing the tip just through the skin. This time Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steel himself against what was to come. He thought of John and wondered whether the younger man had found the bloody soap. Was the man now somewhere out there, looking for him? Arthur himself didn't feel like fighting for his life anymore. Marston was his only chance at a rescue, and yet he wanted the boy to stay away, to stay safe. If this was to be his end, in the hands of this rat, then so be it.

Suddenly Arthur's name echoed through the forest and Micah froze in place. "Oh, shit," the older man spat aggressively and glanced around in obvious panic. They both heard the hurried footsteps coming from somewhere not too far away and Micah turned to stare at Arthur with a manic expression, seemingly weighing his options. The man had one hand on his holster, holding the knife in the other. 'Oh, no no no... Please, don't come here, Marston... Unless you have a gun,' Arthur prayed in his mind, terrified.

Micah stood up abruptly and removed the bandana from Arthur's mouth, stuffing it into the pocket of his black coat. When the older man moved on to untie the rope and gathered it into a quick loop, Arthur almost dared to hope that the man would spare his life after all. He felt a disorienting mixture of pain, shock and relief when instead Micah slit his wrists with two swift flicks of the blade. "This... this was a suicide. You killed yourself." The audacious, finalizing words were clearly stated more to the man himself, but Arthur caught the warning in their tone and meaning.

The knife fell next to his head with a heavy thud and then he listened to Micah's receding steps as the older man ran from the scene of the crime. Arthur knew that he should probably try to stop the blood from pumping out of his wrists, but he couldn't be bothered. Naked on the dark forest floor and listening to the night's calm ambience while the warm summer air caressed his skin was as good a place to die as any. Better than the gallows, anyway.

Arthur's vision grew blurry and he felt himself slowly slipping out of consciousness. Through the sound of blood gushing in his ears he heard John's hoarse, concerned voice calling out his name. 'My guardian angel,' Arthur mused to himself as he lastly saw the shape of a bright ball of light coming his way. It could've been a lantern, the halo of an angel or the fires of Hell itself. Arthur didn't have time to find out as soon after the darkness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should have been dead, for Christ's sake!

Arthur woke up with a start, screaming and glutching at his chest and stomach. In the last one of the long string of horrible dreams Micah had shot Marston multiple times before butchering Arthur with a knife and pulling out his still beating heart. It took him a while to realize that instead of a dying John he was staring at the wall of a tent and that what he felt beneath his fingers were not his own spilt guts but merely bandages. Shaking and sweating profusely, Arthur tried to catch a breath to calm down.

He jumped when a big, warm hand landed onto his shoulder. "It's okay, Arthur... You're okay." Wild-eyed, Arthur turned his head into the direction of the low, soothing voice and found himself meeting Charles Smith's concerned hazel gaze. The younger man squeezed at him gently before letting go. "Marston is in Rhodes, running some errands. Almost had to pull my gun at him before he agreed to go, that stubborn little shit." Charles smiled at Arthur sympathetically and there was humor in his voice as he spoke. "I don't know how you put up with him."

The tremors of nightmare still wracking his body, Arthur gaped at the younger man questioningly. Why had the man thought it important to share this information about John Marston's whereabouts? Charles seemed to read right into his expression. "You were calling out for him," the younger man simply stated and shrugged his shoulders, as if there was nothing embarrassing about the explanation. Despite the other's clear indifference towards the matter Arthur flushed scarlet and tore his eyes away, staring down to his lap instead.

Seeing the tight dressing around his wrists caused him to freeze and suddenly everything that had happened at the lake and in that god-forsaken forest came crashing down back into his memory. Arthur felt like he'd been hit by a train and it took every last shred of what was left of his modesty to not break down into a wailing mess in front of the other man. Micah had slit his wrists, and Arthur had let him. He should have been dead, for Christ's sake!

Drawing in shaky breaths, Arthur slowly pulled himself back from the brink of a mental breakdown. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered Charles' hand running up and down his spine in firm, smooth strokes. The younger man was humming a quiet melody which Arthur did not recognize, but it sounded like a lullaby.

"So... I survived, then," Arthur finally whispered with a guttural voice, clenching his clammy hands together. Charles leaned back in the chair he was sitting in and studied Arthur with a thoughtful expression. "Uh-huh... yeah. John found you and ran back to wake us all up. Luckily he was smart enough to first slow down the bleeding with some strips he had torn out of his own pants. You should've seen them... Him and I carried you back to camp." The younger man paused to capture and hold Arthur's gaze. "Whoever slit your wrists did a piss poor job of it. Missed the artery."

"W-what do you mean? I did this to myself," Arthur spluttered, suddenly panicking. Micah's words echoed loud and clear inside his head. This had been a suicide attempt, period. No-one could know the real truth, otherwise John would be in danger. Charles didn't seem convinced, though. "Never play poker, Arthur. Marston was right, you really are a bad liar," the younger man chuckled humorlessly as he leaned forward again so that their eyes met at the same level. "You are one of our best hunters, you would know how to do it... properly."

"Fuck you! One of our best killers, you mean," Arthur spat, picking nervously at the bandages around his wrists. Charles seemed unfazed by the outburst, merely running a hand through his long inky hair. "Listen... What I'm trying to say is that if you had seriously wanted to... off yourself, you would have done it differently and we wouldn't be talking right now. And besides... Giving up like that... It is just not like you, Morgan." The man's words may have been grim and brutally honest, but his tone was soft and caring. Arthur felt almost bad for the way he answered.

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do." This time the younger man was clearly taken aback, but wouldn't let any hurt to show on his face. "Arthur... I checked the tracks the next morning. I couldn't follow them all the way through, but it is obvious that someone surprised you at the lake, dragged you into the forest, did the deed and fled. Now, I don't think that it was just some random stranger... No, either it was a member of a rivaling gang, in which case we are all in great danger because they know the position of our camp... or it was one of our own."

Arthur laid back in the bed, suddenly feeling light-headed and exhausted. He wasn't sure if it was the topic or the fact that those nightmares hadn't given him a chance to get any real rest. Charles stood up from the chair and moved to sit down onto the edge of the bed. The man let out a heavy sigh, his posture slumped. "Arthur, please... If we should move the camp, the rest of us should know... And if there is a traitor, all the more reason. The truth will come out sooner or later, someone else could get hurt... There is no point in protecting the attacker."

Hearing those words of sense and logic caused Arthur's facade to falter for a fraction. He wouldn't meet the younger man's scrutinizing gaze as he murmured with a barely audible voice, "... It's not the attacker I am protecting." Charles shot up, wandering around the tent and rubbing at his face. It didn't take long for the penny to drop. Arthur had always thought that Charles Smith was probably the smartest and wisest of them all. "You're protecting John." Bingo. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a shaky breath and nodded weakly.

"Oh... Arthur..." Charles' expression was sad with a touch of awe. The man dropped down to his knees next to Arthur's bed and crossed his arms to rest his chin on top of them. "It's someone in the gang, isn't it." Arthur propped himself up into a half-sitting position, pointedly ignoring the other's question. "It's not a threat to the others, at least... not yet. Charles... You have to promise me that you won't intervene. I'll deal with it in my own way when I'm... when I'm ready."

"Arthur-," Charles started, frowning. "No, please," Arthur exclaimed, panicked, and surprised them both by grabbing the younger man by the collar of his light blue tunic. They stared at each other for a few long heartbeats, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, until Arthur let go with quiet apologies. He sighed and reclined on the bed again, running a trembling hand through his overgrown hair. "Please, Charles... You have to trust me on this one. And I... I need to know that I can trust you."

"Always, Arthur," Charles answered softly as he stood up, straightening his tunic and reassuming his place in the chair. "Now try to get some proper sleep. I'll tell Marston that you woke up when he gets back." Arthur gazed searchingly into the younger man's eyes and was met with a reassuring smile. The one thing he wouldn't say out loud still hung heavy in the air between them, but at least the weight on his heart felt lighter now, if only just a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no small amount of embarrassment Arthur realized that he wanted to be consumed.

The next time Arthur woke up, he was greeted by the sullen mug of an absolutely fuming John Marston. He groaned, wondering whether he had simply imagined the whole exchange between himself and Charles and gone to Hell, after all. The younger man's hot hand gripping his own felt very much alive, though.

"H-hey. Look who's back," Arthur offered with a rather pathetic laugh as he slowly sat up on the bed, wincing. Oddly enough he hadn't paid much attention to the pain earlier, but now that he did, the cuts and lacerations decorating his wrists and front stung like hell. There was something sickly ironic about the fact that just as his lower body had started to feel a little bit better, Micah had come and fucked up his upper half for a change.

John didn't so much as blink, nor did he release the hold on Arthur's hand either. The younger man simply kept glaring with an infuriated expression until Arthur grew uncomfortable, squirming and gaping back questioningly. It was only then that John opened his thin mouth to speak. "Why did you do it," the man snapped, deadpan. Arthur was taken aback. What could he have possibly done wrong now? "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

Oh, right. That. So Charles had kept his word, at least for now. It was a lucky thing that Marston was just about as observant as the bloody rocks on the ground. 'The boy's got one helluva grip, though,' Arthur was forced to admit as he struggled in vain to free himself, biting against the smarting in his wrist. With a deep sigh he gave up the fight and met reluctantly John's stern gaze. The man looked positively livid, disappointment and betrayal clear on his grim features. Arthur gulped and licked his lips nervously, hesitating. "John, I... I don't know what to say."

John ignored his poor excuse of an answer. "Where did you get the knife," the younger man pressed on, squeezing now Arthur's hand to the point of pain. Arthur hardly noticed, his mind was desperately trying to come up with a plausible explanation. He had never been very good at his, always having preferred to keep things straightforward and honest. Well, as much as an outlaw ever could, anyway. Instead of lying Arthur finally settled on simply remaining silent and staring resolutely into John's charged pair of dark gray eyes, daring the man to continue the interrogation.

Clearly frustrated with his lack of cooperation, John loosened the death grip on Arthur's hand and shoved it away aggressively. The younger man then turned swiftly around on the chair, facing away and shoulders shaking with what Arthur could only suspect was rage. After a moment of awkward silence John spoke again, running a rough, hurried hand through the oily strands of his long black hair. For some unfathomable reason Arthur's own fingers suddenly itched to touch them as well. He stopped his hand just in time, chastising himself. He would do no such thing.

"Do you have _any idea_ what it felt like finding you out there, bleeding to death? For the second fucking time! It is bad enough that someone else would do something so horrible to you, to... to fucking _rape_ you... But that you would hurt yourself as well, it's... I can't... I can't take it!" It started out as a bitter hiss, but as the words kept pouring out of the younger man's mouth his voice turned into unconsolable sobs and he lowered his head into his hands.

Arthur stared wide-eyed and dumbstruck at John's slender back as it trembled in rhythm with the man's overflowing emotions. His heart went out to his poor friend and he reached out slowly, cautiously to place an aching hand onto one bony shoulder, squeezing lightly. "John... John, please listen to me, it's not that simple-," Arthur started to say, but was cut off by John's sudden angry snarl. "No!"

The younger man jumped up abruptly and pushed the chair to the ground. It fell with a loud thud. Arthur gaped at it and then at the other man, growing increasingly worried. "John-," he started again. John spun around, eyes flaming and pointing an accusing finger. "No, you don't get to do that! You don't get to take yourself away from these people! They need you, I... I need you! This gang wouldn't last one day without you and neither would I!" The younger man then returned to standing with his back turned, stiff like a crowbar and fists clenched on his sides.

"Marston... I think you're being too hard on yourself." Even as he said it, Arthur couldn't stop the tiniest of smiles from creeping to his lips. He felt like a little piece of his dignity had been restored by this man's words. He was needed, he was appreciated. "Don't you 'Marston' me, _Morgan_ ," John spat, glaring from behind his shoulder. "You don't get it, do you," the younger man continued, turning around and stalking the short distance between them. "You are my everything, Arthur Morgan. If you died... it would kill me too."

Arthur instinctively backed away on the bed as John came to hover over him. He couldn't believe his ears, surely the younger man was exaggerating. The doubt must have been clear on his face. "It is true," John sniggered, astonished and sniffed wetly, as if fighting back tears. "You are my friend, my brother... and I... I wish..." The man's voice was now softer and his expression infinitely kinder as he placed one knee on the edge of the mattress, leaning closer.

Caught between panic and excitement, Arthur's heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He couldn't do but stare back into those wild gray eyes as they slowly consumed him. With no small amount of embarrassment Arthur realized that he wanted to be consumed. After all the hurt he had gone through lately, he was desperate to feel something other than pain. "... I wish that we could be something... something more." Those last few words came out as nothing but a whisper as their foreheads met with a soft thud, their noses touching. Somehow it felt incredibly intimate.

John stayed still like that, as if asking for a permission. Arthur's mind was made up already. He let his eyelids flutter shut and reached upwards, closing the distance between their mouths. The kiss itself was not much more than a brush of cracked lips and rough stubble, but it carried a promise of something better for the future. It sent a shock of heat down Arthur's body and judging by the way John groaned against his lips, the younger man must have felt it too.

John made no effort to deepen the kiss and Arthur was thankful for it. He didn't feel ready for anything more just yet. They broke apart after a short while, panting lightly out of the sheer newness and intensity of the moment. When their eyes met again Arthur blushed despite himself.

His flush grew a shade or two darker as John took a gentle hold of his hand, the same one the man had so painfully squeezed only a moment earlier, and brought it up between their faces. Never breaking the eye contact, the younger man bent back the wrist and pressed a chaste kiss on the bandage. "Don't you hurt yourself anymore, okay?" Not trusting his own voice, Arthur simply nodded.

John was about to kiss his other wrist as well when the flap door opened and Hosea stepped into the tent. The old man froze at the sight of them, his wise brown eyes taking in the unorthodox scene. "At ease, boys," the man finally quipped with unexpected, unnerving calmness.

John let go of Arthur's hand and jumped off the bed, pacing around and scratching at the back of his neck nervously. Arthur sat up straighter and drew the blanket higher around himself. Hosea gave the both of them one last steely glance before approaching the bed. "Arthur, I came to change your bandages."

"F-fine," Arthur stammered, realizing to his mortification that he was sporting a slight erection. "Right... I'll just... go," John grunted and skulked towards the exit like a kicked puppy. "John, I would like to have a word with you later today," Hosea called after the younger man who stopped dead in his tracks. The old man's expression was placid, but the touch of warning in his voice made it very clear that this was a command, not a request. Arthur flashed John a shy, apologetic smile before the younger man disappeared into the bright daylight with a grumbled "whatever".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, raising Jack together with Abigail, but with Arthur by his side?

John sat on a rock by the lake, skipping stones and watching as the last rays of sun gave way for the moon and the stars. This was the same spot where he had taken Arthur to bathe before the man had disappeared. "Should've never left him alone... Fucking soap...," John grumbled to himself, throwing the last pebble into the water with such force that it frightened a duck swimming nearby. He followed the creature's path with empty eyes as it took off with haste, quacking in panic.

When John heard a tersely exclaimed "there you are, son" and assertive steps approaching him from the side, he wished that he could have flown away with the bird. Hosea came next to him, briefly squeezing his shoulder. "I looked through the whole camp for you." John nodded gruffly in acknowledgement, but said nothing. They both stared at the moonlit lake in an uncomfortable silence until the older man spoke again. "Do you love him?"

John was caught off guard by the sudden, straightforward question. He snapped his head up to gape at the man's audacity, but looked quickly away again when he was met by a dark, penetrating gaze. John felt heat creeping to his cheeks and he cleared his throat noisily. "Of course. He's my brother," he finally quipped matter-of-factly with an airy gesture of his hand. Hosea, as per usual, saw right through his bullcrap. "You know what I mean, John," the older man sniffed tightly.

John let out a deep sigh and folded his hands, doubling over on the rock. His hoarse whisper was barely audible. "... Yeah... Yeah, I do... L-love him, that is." Hosea hummed approvingly. "And is the feeling mutual?" John rocked back and forth nervously. Did Arthur love him back? The older man had certainly always cared about him like a real big brother would. But romantic love? That was another thing entirely. On the other hand, Arthur had not once shied away from John's intimate touches. Leaned into them, more like. And besides, it had been the man himself to initiate the kiss.

"I guess... I don't know... I think so," John breathed out. Hosea paced in front of him, giving him a stern look. "You have to know for sure before making any further move on him." The older man paused, coming to a halt and crossing his arms. "... Assuming that you haven't already. And for your own sake I do hope that you haven't."

Appalled by the meer suggestion, John opened his mouth to protest that he would never ever force himself or his feelings on Arthur. Hosea silenced him with a raised, reassuring palm. The older man's brown eyes were softer now, even though his mouth remained a thin, serious line. "No, I don't think you would. I know you, son. I don't believe that you would force yourself on anyone." John glared at the man and threw his hands up at the confirmation.

"Even so," Hosea continued with a cool and steady voice, "Arthur is still recovering. How do you know that you haven't mistaken his need for care and comfort for affection? How can Arthur know that you're not taking advantage of his vulnerable state?" John froze at the words. The older man was right, of course, no matter how inconcievable his implication was. John had to make sure that Arthur knew his intentions to be pure.

"Just something for you to think about," Hosea quipped with a kinder tone as John jumped off the rock and stalked back and forth the shoreline, caught in a clash between reason and feeling. "... I guess Arthur and I will have to find out," he finally sighed, stopping in his tracks and raising his head to meet the older, wiser pair of eyes. Hosea's expression was guarded as he took John's place on the rock, stretching out his legs. "What about Abigail and Jack?"

John looked away, hiding his face behind the curtain of his long black mop of hair. "Abigail and I are not together anymore. I don't think we ever were, not really." His voice came out hesitant and with a hint of shame, but he didn't feel any bitterness. "That doesn't change the fact that Jack needs a father," the older man pointed out with an arched brow, crossing his arms and legs. John growled at that and turned his back to the man. "How do I even know if he really is my son," he grumbled and heard a long, tired sigh behind him.

"You know... Don't take this the wrong way, John, but I don't think it really matters whether he is your blood or not. Someone has to take responsibility for that boy. You are one of the candidates and she chose you." John felt his temper rising and he turned around, a finger at the ready to point it accusingly. "Now, listen here-," he started, but quickly swallowed whatever backtalk had been about to fly out of his mouth when he saw the sad, disappointed look on Hosea's face.

"We raised you better than this," the older man mourned and slowly stood up, approaching John with caution. "You have to take responsibility for your own actions. You may not be together with Abigail, but you slept with her and now little Jack is here. He may or may not be yours, that doesn't really matter. What matters is that that boy gets to grow up with a father as well as a mother. The gang will support them, but a bunch of uncles could never compensate for a stable father figure."

"Besides," Hosea continued with amusement and placed a supporting hand onto John's shoulder. "I think it'll do good for you. Learning to be a man, at last." At John's resigned, unsatisfied grunt the older man added gently, "It doesn't have to mean that you can't be with Arthur if you both so choose. I am sure that stranger arrangements have been made by people better than us."

An appeasing silence fell upon them and they stood like that for some time, facing opposite directions. Hosea never removed his hand. John stared down to the dark sand as his mind tried to process everything that the older man had just said to him. He had expected to be scolded and perhaps even punched for having such thoughts about a man, let alone Hosea's own Golden Boy. Considering that these kinds of affairs usually ended up with the participants being shunned and hanged or otherwise parted with their lives, the old man was taking it surprisingly easy on him.

Now, raising Jack together with Abigail, but with Arthur by his side? John could do that. He huffed out a short, relieved laugh and then remarked, "You sound like Arthur." Hosea turned to look at him with a fond smirk and slapped the back of his head playfully. "And you sound like Dutch, the same damn attitude." The older man then patted John's shoulder and let go, taking a couple of steps closer to the water. John followed suit.

"... I guess it just goes to show that the two of you truly are our sons...," Hosea uttered after a few heartbeats, his expression touched as he gazed out into the nightly horizon. "We love you both, equally. Don't you forget that," the man continued with a quick glance and a warm smile. John felt a sharp pang of guilt at those words. He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet nervously, gathering the courage to ask. "Doesn't it bother you? That I have these... feelings for your son? For my own brother?"

There was a long, awkward silence before the older man answered. When he did, his words came out slowly and with some hesitancy. "I guess I _could_ preach you about the moral issues... but I won't. God knows that most of us won't come knocking on His gates once our time comes and, well... We'll be shot or hanged anyway if the law catches up with us. All I want for you boys is to find some happiness in this life. As long as you do right by Jack and his mother, I don't mind. Just keep quiet about it around the camp. At least until you find out how Arthur feels about all this."

John released a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, but tensed again when Hosea continued with a more serious, warning tone. "Which reminds me... Well, I don't need to tell you how much that poor man has suffered lately, both physically and mentally. You have seen it with your own eyes and I am so proud that you have stood by his side through it all." A meaningful pause. John squirmed underneath the keen, scrutinizing gaze.

"But if I find out that you have broken his heart or caused him pain in any other way... No amount of love can save you from the consequences. Now, I know that I myself probably wouldn't have the heart to put you out of your misery, but Dutch will. Am I making myself clear?" John swallowed thickly and nodded firmly. He didn't need to be told such a thing, he would rather shoot himself than put Arthur through any more hell.

Hosea's hard expression softened immediately and he threw a friendly arm over John's shoulders. "Right. What do you say if we head back to the camp? There might still be some stew left in the pot, you could take some for Arthur as well." John felt delirious as they stumbled together in the moonlight, surrounded by a calming air of mutual understanding. "You surprise me, old man," he rasped and got an amused chuckle in return. "Oh, you don't know the half of it, son," the older man grinned with a mysterious glint in his eyes. "Dutch and I were once young and curious..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could split the fucker's skull right then and there.

Six weeks after the "incident" with the O'Driscolls, Arthur was limping on his own around the camp and helping out with the chores. Not that anyone expected it of him, but if he had to waste one more day in that god forsaken tent, doing nothing, he would surely go crazy. His mind was fucked up enough as it was, one moment conjuring flashbacks of being carved by Micah's knife and the next fantasizing about kissing John with earnest. He dared not let his imagination wander any further, lest it trigger the memories of Colm he was trying so hard to suppress.

Arthur needed work to keep himself distracted from such thoughts, which was why he was now chopping firewood in the bright midday light, sweating as the sun warmed his covered back. A grunt escaped his lips with each swing of the axe, but he pointedly ignored his body's protests against the exertion. His wounds were more or less healed now, but the scars were fresh and raw and a dull ache still occupied him from the waist down. A bad leg he could deal with, but he was afraid that he would have to live the rest of his life with his body reminding him who it belonged to now.

"It's about damn time. If you won't do the courtesy of dying, you might as well start earning your keep again." Arthur froze in mid-swing as his mind was invaded by the voice of the last person he wanted to see right now. Micah hadn't shown himself after _that night_ , probably too afraid that Arthur would break down and squeal on him.

With some hesitancy, Arthur straightened up and slowly turned his head to meet this poor excuse of a man eye to eye. "Come to finish your job," he inquired with a glacial tone, trying to pack up as much loathing into his glare as possible. It wasn't difficult. "Pipe the fuck down, Morgan, or..." the older man snarled and raised his hands, glancing around nervously. But Arthur wouldn't fall for this crap anymore.

"Or what? You'll kill me? You'll kill Marston? Don't make me laugh," he hissed and continued, "You couldn't kill me even when you had me tied up and defenceless. You sure as hell couldn't kill Marston. He's the quickest gunslinger around here and you... you are _pathetic_." Arthur spat out those last few words. It felt so good to return that insult.

Something akin to realization passed over Micah's face and one could practically see the gears turning in the man's head as he tried to come up with a new lever. When he did, his expression turned into a nasty grin. "What about that little boy of his, then," the older man all but purred, clearly pleased with himself. "Surely you wouldn't want anything to happen to that sweet little kid? I've understood that you are more of a father to the boy than Marston himself."

That was a low blow, even for scum like Micah Bell. Sure enough, the older man had placed a threat to John's family when they had first spoken after the assault, but back then Arthur hadn't known exactly what that sick bastard was capable of. Even now he still wasn't sure if Micah would actually hurt a child, but he sure as hell wasn't going to find out.

"You keep your filthy hands off Jack Marston," Arthur growled lowly, his fingers clenching unconsciously around the wooden handle of the axe. He hadn't realized that he still had it in his grasp. A heady rush of power and adrenaline filled his veins. He could split the fucker's skull right then and there.

Micah seemed to have come to the same conclusion. The man eyed at the tool nervously, looking like he suddenly regretted approaching Arthur in the first place. Testing the waters to see if the older man would bolt, Arthur took a step closer. Fear flashed in Micah's cold gray eyes and he backed away slowly, hands raising in a defensive gesture. "Now now... Don't do anything stupid, Morgan...," the man muttered under his breath, the uncertainty in his voice betraying him.

Arthur felt immense satisfaction at the other's reaction and let a wide, malicious grin spread across his face. After all the humiliation, disparagement and subjection, he was finally in control of the situation. He revelled in the feeling, knowing with great regret that he couldn't actually kill the bastard. Not right now and not like this, anyway.

Arthur was the only one who knew Micah for exactly what he was. If he hacked the man down, the truth would die along with him. Everyone in the camp would witness a cold-blooded murder and think that Arthur had finally lost his sanity. Hell, he could get shot as a traitor himself. How ironic would that be! No, he would have to figure out a way to catch the bastard in the act, and red-handed at that. Otherwise it would just be one man's word against another.

Arthur huffed in frustration, but took another step just to humor himself. He raised the axe into the air, as if preparing to strike, and enjoyed how Micah cowered beneath him. Enjoyed it maybe a little too much. But instead of lodging the blade into the older man's forehead, he spun around and slammed it down into the stub with a loud "bam" that must have startled half the camp.

When Arthur turned again to flash Micah a warning glare, the man was still crouching and gaping at him with a funny mixture of terror and awe. Both men nailed to their spots, the time itself seemed to slow down as they dared each other to make the next move, as if in a duel.

Dutch's booming voice cut through the heavy silence. "Arthur! What is going on here?" The gang leader strode towards them from the direction of his tent, looking alarmed. Arthur had barely time to open his mouth before Micah answered for him. "Nothing, boss. Just inviting Arthur along to come see about that Grays' security job... Once he can sit right in a saddle, of course."

Dutch came next to them, paying the reddening Arthur a worried glance before turning to Micah with a stern expression. "That was unnecessary, Micah...," the man growled, but continued, "But you are right, I think it will be safer and more efficient to go as a group. If everything turns out fine and they don't need all of you for the job, they can just send some of you back... The first choice naturally being Arthur."

Arthur stared at the two dumbly. "T-the... The Grays," he finally choked out. "Offered _us_ a job? After we burned down their tobacco fields?" This had to be a joke, it didn't make any sense! Dutch looked dead serious, though, and Micah had a smug expression on his face. "That's right, cowpoke. Some of my silver tongue and good old Sheriff Gray was ready to let bygones be bygones. Said that there is a little something we could do for him as, you know, a peace offering of sorts. Something about security, he wouldn't go into detail."

"I'm sure that he wouldn't...," Arthur grumbled under his breath. He wanted to scream that this was a horrible idea, that it was just another obvious trap, but instead he simply hissed, "You can count me out of it." Dutch looked disappointed, but his voice was soft nonetheless. "That's fine, Arthur. I'm not forcing you into anything, especially since you are still healing." But Micah wouldn't let it slide so easily. "Pity, Morgan... I was hoping that you would be the one I could count _on_. You see, I need a good marksman in case things go south... I guess I'll have to ask Marston."

"No," Arthur exclaimed, too quick and too loud. Dutch stared at him questioningly while Micah wore the most shit-eating grin one could muster. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Arthur couldn't let John go on this mission, he was sure that Micah would see that something happened to the younger man. Praying that this trap wouldn't snap on him as badly as the last one, Arthur finally sighed in defeat. "... Fine. I'll do it."

Dutch seemed taken aback by his sudden change of heart. "Oh... Okay, then. If you are sure," the gang leader stammered, the confusion clear in his voice. "Sure, just... Give me a few more days," Arthur breathed out, feeling like he had just signed his own death warrant. He was most definitely not ready for this. "No rush, cowpoke," Micah quipped snidely. "The sheriff said that he doesn't care when we do the job as long as we get it done. Just let me know when you're ready and I'll inform him in advance."

Arthur nodded quietly and Micah beamed, victorious. It was a truly ugly sight. "Boss," the man then grunted at Dutch, tipping his hat and turning to take his leave. His eyes lingered on the axe before flicking back to Arthur and masking his apprehension with an amused chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell, maybe he really was insane.

Staring numbly at Micah's receding back, Arthur almost forgot that Dutch was still with him. "What," he grumbled and turned to the older man when he felt a pair of keen eyes boring into him. Dutch's brow was furrowed in deep thought, his dark gaze scanning Arthur's face as if searching for something. It made Arthur feel self-conscious about the secrets he carried and he gulped nervously, squirming underneath the scrutiny.

"What was that about," Dutch finally asked with an even tone. Arthur sighed and looked away. "Don't know what you mean," he lied. But the older man wouldn't give up so easily. He moved to pull the axe from the stub, dropped it to the ground and motioned Arthur to sit down. "Don't play dumb with me, Arthur. We both know that you are not, no matter how much you like to pretend," the man said softly.

Arthur hesitated, eyeing at the makeshift seat suspiciously. He did feel like taking a break, his bad leg was killing him... But on the other hand he didn't like to show weakness in front of anyone, least of all Dutch. He was not weak, he could still be of use to the gang, to his family.

Finally Dutch made the decision on Arthur's behalf. "Sit," the older man commanded, growing impatient, and Arthur did as he was told, gratefully and without question. He bit back a hiss as he lowered himself gingerly onto the stub, trying to ignore the other's sympathetic flinch. Leaning forward and running a shaky hand through the sweaty locks of his freshly cut hair, he sighed, "I just... don't trust him, that's all."

"I know, son," Dutch replied, predictably. But then the older man stepped closer, bending over and Arthur was completely taken aback by what the man whispered into his ear. "The truth is... I don't trust him either. That is why I am glad that you said yes. I want you to keep an eye on Micah."

Dutch straightened up again and Arthur was left gaping. He had been under the impression that Micah still had their leader's full trust and confidence, despite all the trouble that bastard had caused ever since joining in. He told the older man as much and couldn't help but notice how the man spaced out, black eyes growing impossibly darker in an unreadable expression.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence Dutch blinked again, clearing his throat. "Yes... Well...," the older man started, the words coming out of his mouth slowly and hesitantly. "You see, that night... It happened on Micah's watch and I can't stop thinking... If that man had done his duty and patrolled around the camp instead of jerking off in his damn tent... Maybe he would've found you and... and stopped you from... harming yourself."

Unable to hold it together any longer, Arthur burst into an uncontrollable fit of cynical, joyless laughter. He wasn't sure which thought he found funnier, the one of Micah jacking it off as a toast to his death or the naive assumption that the bastard would be inclined to help him in any way. Dutch was well aware of their less than warm relations, even if the man didn't know the whole truth. "Dutch, you... You do realize that Micah would've helped me to end myself," Arthur sniggered, slowly pulling himself together again.

Dutch stared at him in shock and mortification. The older man looked as though he had been slapped in the face and Arthur's hand itched to do just that. He wanted to grab his leader by the collar of that pompous vest and shake the man violently, to yell at him to take a look at what was happening right under his nose, in his own goddamn camp!

"Are you quite alright, Arthur," Dutch finally asked with a careful, apprehensive tone that made Arthur feel like he was some kind of a crazy lunatic. "Well, what the hell do you think," he lashed out, his temper flaring. Hell, maybe he really _was_ insane. A lot of people lost their minds over a whole lot less, that was for sure.

Dutch dropped his gaze, looking sad and regretful. "... No, of course you're not...," the older man whispered softly, shaking his head. "How could you be, after everything that's happened..." The sorry, compassionate tone in the man's voice did nothing to appease Arthur's anger and he shot back to his feet, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain. "Yeah, well... What do you care, anyway," he grit through his teeth, looking away with his fists clenched on his sides. "You have barely said a word to me since I got back from your old friend's tender loving care."

This time Dutch looked actually wounded. The older man opened his mouth, probably to give some bullshit excuse for his behaviour. Arthur didn't want to hear it. "Where the hell have you been, anyway," he pressed on, eyes glistening with emotion as he turned to face the other man. "John says that lately you have spent more time _outside_ the camp than in it. That is not like you, Dutch. What the fuck is so goddamn important? Is it some new job?"

Hot and bitter tears threatened to escape Arthur's eyes. He felt so worthless, so confused, so... _so angry_ at Dutch for shutting in and keeping distance when he would have needed him the most. Why? Why now? Not once had the man even said that he was sorry for what happened... What was up with that?

Dutch's expression hardened, and so did Arthur's. They stared at each other calculatingly before the older man took a step closer and spoke with a calm, cautious voice. "It's not a job, not exactly... You'll find out soon enough. It is something that I've been working on these past six weeks and I daresay that you will appreciate it."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He had no idea what Dutch was planning, but feared that it was something equally reckless as trying to strike up a deal with the O'Driscolls or the Grays. The conversation appeared to be over as the older man moved to walk past him, but not before stopping next to him and grasping his shoulder as almost like an afterthought.

"I hope that you know what you're getting into with him," Dutch murmured into Arthur's ear and gave him a knowing look that left no question as to who the older man was referring to. Arthur had no time to respond other than to blush furiously as then the man gave him a reassuring squeeze and moved on, leaving him to stare into nothingness in a confused mixture of anger and embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was lonely, goddamnit.

Arthur couldn't sleep. The next morning he was supposed to ride to Rhodes with Micah, Sean and Bill to meet Sheriff Gray for that mysterious "security job" and his heart was filled with dread. He wasn't ready for this. It was not like he didn't want to pull his weight, but this was clearly another suicide mission and since the scars from the last one were still fresh on his body and mind, he wasn't sure if he could handle any more stress or trauma.

Still he had to go or otherwise Micah would take John in his stead and that he couldn't allow. This was the only way to keep the younger man safe from the obvious trap and whatever that bastard Bell had planned. Arthur didn't care half as much for his own life, though now that he had discovered this... _thing_ between himself and the Marston boy, he didn't want to die needlessly before getting to see where it all could lead.

The fear of never seeing John again sat heavily on his chest, hard like an anvil. Its crushing weight pressed him deeper into the bed, but also kept his mind pinned down to the waking world, denying him of rest. "Marston...," he whispered blearily into the night, seeking some kind of comfort from the other in his helpless situation. When no answer came, he called out a little louder. "... John?" Still no answer. Arthur raised his head from the pillow and craned his neck to peer down to the dark and surprisingly _empty_ floor of his tent. Of course. How stupid of him.

The past few weeks John had spent most nights on a bedroll next to his bed, but after Hosea had caught them in the middle of their little moment, the younger man had stopped staying over. Arthur wondered if it was because of something that the old man had said or if the boy had finally realized that there was nothing to be gained from a sad, ugly, aged mess of a man like him and gone back to Abigail. That would've probably been for the best for everyone involved.

Hell, maybe it would be for the best if he really _did_ die tomorrow. The gang would be relieved of the _damaged goods_ , the _dead weight_ , and John would be freed from whatever infatuation that fool harbored for him. The young man could go back to his woman and child and they could be a family. A real family, just like something that Arthur would've once wanted for himself. Not anymore, though. Years ago, he had come close to that dream... only to have his hopes buried six feet into the ground.

Arthur's eyes burned with bitter grief and he blinked back the tears, drawing in a shaky breath. The combination of fear, guilt and disappointment... It was all too much, the pressure of it unbearable. Suddenly he couldn't take it anymore and sat up abruptly on the bed, pushing those feelings aside before they would suffocate him. But instead of dispersing they simply gathered into a new place, settling down to the pit of his stomach like a lead weight.

'Oh, fuck it,' Arthur thought to himself, frustrated and breathing heavily through the sorrow and hopelessness. It was no use, trying to force sleep like this. Tossing away the blanket and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he decided to go for a short stroll around the camp. He doubted that it would do much to ease his anxiety, but at least it was better than letting it slowly crush him to death.

Arthur slipped his feet into his boots and stood up, snatching his shirt from the back of a chair. The air was certainly warm enough, but he didn't feel comfortable strutting around topless. Not anymore, not even in the middle of the night when it was unlikely that anyone would see him. Someone could still be loitering about, the night guard at the very least. Popping in the last button to secure his modesty, Arthur stepped outside of the tent.

The camp was calm and quiet, everyone already retired hours ago. Well, apparently not everyone, since there was still a fire burning in the pit. Arthur could see it glowing soft and inviting behind the cook's workstation. He wondered who was on the watch that night. A nice chat with one of the boys, or girls, could help to alleviate his stress, if even just a little bit. To hell with strolling in the dark... He was lonely, goddamnit.

Arthur limped towards the campfire, approaching with caution. He prayed that the slightly swaying shadow cast onto the ground did not belong to Micah... or Dutch. A part in him, the one that still possessed some modicum of moral decency, nagged into his ear that he shouldn't have felt so explicitly relieved, so _ecstatic_ when he saw John Marston sitting on that log. The man was alone and had a bottle of whiskey in his hand, almost half of it gone.

Arthur found himself suddenly hesitating. John hadn't noticed him yet. The younger man stared unblinkingly into the flames, clearly lost in his own thoughts. What if the man didn't want Arthur's company? He could still turn around and walk away, have that stroll instead of bothering the boy with his pathetic woes. In the end, though, the ache in his heart did get the better of him.

Arthur stepped closer and cleared his throat, announcing his presence. John was startled, almost dropping the bottle. "Oh! ... H-hey, Arthur," the younger man slurred, turning to greet the other with bloodshot eyes and a small, sad smile. "Jesus, Marston," Arthur gasped at the pitiful sight. "Why aren't you resting?" John's expression turned serious. "I could ask you the same thing." There was an awkward pause as Arthur didn't know what to say.

Finally John raised the bottle in his hand and held it towards Arthur, who took the gesture as an invitation. He accepted the offered drink gratefully and with haste, clasping onto it like to a lifeline. He took a long, deep swig and sat down onto the log, an arm's length from the other man. "You on guard duty," he asked, taking another, quicker swig and passing the bottle back. "Nah, it's Charles' turn," John answered with a burp and pointed vaguely at the tree line with the bottom of the bottle. "He's somewhere around here." Arthur nodded and lowered his gaze to the flames.

A peaceful, if slightly uncomfortable silence fell between them. They sat like that for some time, staring into the fire and sharing the whiskey until it was all gone, down to the last drop. John was the first one to speak again. "Had another nightmare?" The younger man sounded reserved and apologetic, as if he thought that he was somehow intruding. Arthur shook his head slowly. "Couldn't sleep in the first place." The next words slipped out before he could stop them. "Guess I got used to your snoring."

Whether he should have blamed this lapse on the booze that created such a pleasant buzz in his head, or John's presence and nearness that warmed his belly, Arthur didn't know. What he did know was how questionable was the implication in the embarrassing confession his treacherous lips had just spilled. Mortified and flushing bright red, he stole a quick sideways glance at the younger man next to him. The man was staring at him with an unreadable expression, eyes hooded and mouth hanging slightly agape. Arthur gulped nervously.

"You know...," John suddenly started with a low, husky voice. It sent a shiver down Arthur's spine, but he kept his eyes firmly nailed to the flames. "Abigail used to sometimes rub my shoulders when I was stressed out." Arthur's heart sank. Whatever he had expected to come out of the younger man's mouth was definitely not this. A quiet, broken 'oh' was all the response he could manage. He turned to look away, throat tight and chest aching with emotions that shouldn't have been there. Hurt. Disappointment. _Jealousy_.

Arthur jumped when a heavy, hot hand landed onto his shoulder. What surprised him even more, though, were the words that followed. They were murmured so close to his ear that he could feel the warm puff of air against his sensitized cheek and smell the strong alcohol on the other's breath. Since when had there been only a few inches between them? "Yeah... So, I figured... If you wanted, I could rub you in turn."

Arthur's brain short-circuited, unable to process the unusual proposition. If possible, his blush grew even deeper. John wanted to... do _what_ to him, exactly? The confusion and uncertainty must have shown clearly even on the one side of his face. "Your shoulders, I mean! I would like to rub... your shoulders," the younger man clarified hastily and shot his hands up in a reassuring gesture. Arthur turned slowly to gape at the man, eyes blown wide and mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water. He certainly felt like one, and the whiskey wasn't helping.

John's hand was back again, thumb drawing soothing circles through the thin fabric of Arthur's shirt. He shuddered at the contact and the hoarse whisper that ghosted the shell of his ear. "You seem so tense... Let me help you." Arthur tried to silence his touch-starved body by telling himself that the boy was drunk, but then again... so was he, and would it have made any difference if they weren't? He had trouble sleeping, John had offered to help him, and after... after everything, he truly felt like he could trust the younger man not to hurt him or force him into anything.

Finally Arthur gave in to the coaxing words and gentle, guiding touches. He let out a tentative sigh of relief and slid down from the log, sitting cross-legged onto the thankfully dry, fire-warmed ground. Wiggling into a more or less comfortable position, he let John take his previous seat behind his back. Once they were both settled, the younger man's fingers jumped right into their task, kneading at the taut muscles on Arthur's neck, shoulders and back. It was rough and clumsy and not all that satisfying, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless.

"Damn shirt...," John grumbled under his breath after a moment or two of frustrated fumbling and groping. True enough, the experience wasn't the smoothest, nor the most pleasant one with the flannel in the way. Arthur hardly cared, though, so lost he was in the welcome sensations of the younger man's ministrations and the sight and warmth of the flames dancing in front of him. So lost, in fact, that he didn't notice the first few buttons on his shirt being popped open and the garment inched down his torso until it was already pooling around his elbows.

"M-Marston? What are you-," Arthur started when he felt the light brush of calloused fingertips against his bare shoulder blades. "It's no good with the shirt... I want to do this properly," John explained, sounding determined. Arthur knew that the younger man had already seen his scars dozens of times, but still he couldn't stop his body from stiffening in fearful anticipation, dreading the other's reaction.

Most of the superficial bruising had long since faded out, but the more permanent damage remained branded into Arthur's skin like some sort of sick reminder... A stamp of ownership. He was particularly ashamed of a large, round set of tooth marks that one of the O'Driscolls had sunk deep within his flesh upon their... their...

Suddenly Arthur felt something hot and wet pressed against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It took him several heartbeats to realize that John was, in fact, kissing that certain hideous bite mark. A surprised gasp escaped his lips and a tremor ran through his body as his face flushed scarlet once more. "Shhh...," the younger man whispered into his ear in a calming, appeasing manner. "It's alright, Arthur... Let me do this for you."

With one last peck on the scar John returned to his task, rubbing and squeezing at the newly exposed skin and muscle. His technique was still more than a little off, but at least his grip was firm and the lack of shirt gave him easier access. It took Arthur some time to relax again, but once he did, he found himself enjoying immensely the feeling of familiar, trusted hands touching his naked flesh. So much so, that he didn't mind at all when the younger man gave up the half-assed kneading altogether and simply circled those wide palms all over his upper body.

Arthur didn't protest either when John wrapped two strong, wiry arms around his midsection and slowly pulled him back against the log, flush against the younger man's own front. Instead he leaned his head back and straightened his aching legs, allowing himself to melt into that warm body behind him. He sighed in contentment as long fingers ran through the coarse hair on his chest, palms smoothing over pectorals in their wake. He hadn't felt this comfortable, this safe, this cared for since... well. Forever, really.

Wanting to revel in this rare luxury, Arthur let the crackling fire, the numbing whiskey and John's soothing attentions to guide him into a trance-like state. He couldn't tell the exact moment when those shameless lips returned to his skin, but he certainly felt the slow, affectionate kisses that they peppered all over his neck and shoulders. They wrung little shivers from his body, which turned into a full-blown shudder and a sharp intake of breath when the younger man's wandering fingertips suddenly brushed over a nipple. Then the bastard had the audacity to repeat the motion.

"J-John...," Arthur warned with a weak, breathless voice. His body was starting to respond to the stimulation, legs spreading of their own volition and air passing from his parted lips in short, heated puffs. The kisses had come to a halt and instead John's open mouth had latched itself back onto that ugly mark on his neck, teeth lightly grazing scarred flesh. The hands had ceased their roaming as well, now resting hot and heavy against his quivering stomach. He tried to tell himself that he didn't wish for them to go lower, he really did. But, in the end... "John... please..."

A deep, rumbling growl filled Arthur's ears and vibrated against his skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. It would have aroused him further, had he not recognized it for what it was. That son of a bitch had passed out on him! ... Not that he didn't feel a little drowsy himself... Tipsy, but also warm and safe, in none other than John Marston's tight embrace... His troubled mind finally silenced... if only just for a moment...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was suicide! This was madness!

John woke up to a pounding headache and a crushing weight on his chest. Slowly opening his eyes, he was relieved to find out that it was still dark. He gazed up to a half rolled-up skylight window. So, he was in a tent. A glance around revealed to him that it was not his own. This realization brought his attention back to the heavy mass cutting his breath. He lifted his lead-like arms to try and push away the offending object, hands discovering cloth and skin.

That was when John heard a soft groan right next to his ear. 'What the hell,' he thought, freezing. Cautiously he turned his head to the direction of the noise... and found himself staring into the heavy-lidded eyes of one Arthur Morgan. Suddenly the memories from earlier that night flooded back into his mind. That's right, Charles had shook them awake and told them to go continue their sleep in someplace more suitable. Bless the man for sparing them from an even greater humiliation and embarrassment!

Arthur seemed to have come to his bearings. "... Oh! S-s-sorry," the man gasped and started to pull his arm away after realizing where it rested. John, not minding the limb nearly as much now that he knew who it belonged to, caught a hold of it. "It's alright, Arthur...," he whispered, turning onto his side so that he faced the other man. To emphasize his words, he let go of the arm and instead reached out to brush feather-light fingers along the defined, stubbled jawline.

Arthur appeared stunned, wide-eyed and gaping. John couldn't resist those plump lips as they hung open so invitingly. He leaned in slowly, giving the older man time to pull back if needed. He didn't, and their mouths met, simply pressing against each other for a few heartbeats. Then the man let out a shuddering sigh and completely _melted_ into the touch, tentatively answering to the kiss. Thrilled and spurred on by this victory, John slipped his tongue inside that hot, wet cavern. In return he got a surprised yelp, followed by a deep moan that went straight down to his groin.

John brought both of his hands up to cradle Arthur's face. The older man's fists were clenched in the front of his shirt, as if seeking mental support. Their tongues danced and battled inside the man's mouth, John asserting dominance and the former accepting it with lost little moans. John lapped up every single drop of Arthur's consent. Voraciously, like a man desperate for water. He had been waiting for this for _so long_ and although he knew that it was probably still too early to take things further, he wanted to _devour everything_ , to exploit and cherish whatever access he was granted.

Eventually they had to part for air and they did so panting wetly, a string of saliva still connecting their swollen lips. John wished that it would've been less dark so that he could've seen if there was a blush spread across Arthur's cheeks. There was certainly one on his own face, at least judging by how hot it felt. With one last peck he removed the lower hand, letting the older man rest his head against the bedroll. The other one he slid into those unruly curls. The death grip on his shirt loosened, but didn't let go entirely. He couldn't even begin to describe how happy it made him feel.

They fell back into a peaceful silence, content in each other's warmth and proximity. Relishing the feeling of Arthur's silky strands between his fingers, John let his eyes fall shut again. "... John...," the older man started after a moment or two. "Mhmm... yeah," John mumbled in response, sleep already reclaiming him. It took some time before the answer came, but when it did, he no longer had the mind to register it or wonder about its meaning. "... Nevermind."

* * *

The next time John stirred, the sun had risen and he was alone. Had he dreamt it all? ... No, he was still in Arthur's tent. He sat up on the bedroll, clutching his aching head. Whiskey didn't suit him. He had passed out in his clothes and now the heavy garments clung to his sweaty skin. He glanced around, taking in his bearings. Arthur had indeed left. The flap door hung slightly open, letting in a sliver of bright sunlight.

Slowly John stood up and stepped outside of the tent. The camp was bustling, everyone already busy with their chores. Damnit, he must have slept at least until noon. He headed to the water barrel to wash his clammy face. His gaze searched for Arthur on the way, but there was no sign of the man. 'Wonder where he's gone,' he thought as he splashed the cool water over his heated flesh. 'Maybe I should ask around...'

"Hey, Abigail," John called out to the woman as she walked past him. "You seen Arthur this morning?" Abigail stopped and turned, scanning him from head to toe with a disapproving look on her face. Her tone was friendly as she answered, though. "Yeah, he rode out with a bunch of others about half an hour ago. I think I heard that sleazeball Micah mentioning something about a job... Maybe you should ask Dutch?"

John dried his face to his handkerchief and shoved it back into his pocket. "Alright... Thanks, Abigail," he muttered, starting to take his leave. Then he thought better of it and stopped in his tracks, turning back to the woman. "How are you, by the way," he asked, hesitant. "H-how's Jack?" Abigail seemed surprised at first, but then a pleased smile spread across her lips. "I am well, John. And so is the boy. Arthur took him fishing a couple of days back... You should do something with him as well." John nodded slowly and flashed a small, apologetic smile. "I promise."

John found Dutch by the man's tent, arguing over something with Hosea in hissed voices. "Hey Dutch," he called out, interrupting the two. "Where's Arthur?" The gang leader turned to him with an annoyed expression. "Sent him to Rhodes with Micah and the lot. Why, what now John," the man snapped, clearly irritated. Taken aback, John's eyes averted to Hosea who looked positively furious. "You have sent him to his _death_ , along with the rest of them," the old man snarled at their leader. "After all he's been through, I _can't believe_ that you sent him to another trap!"

John froze, staring at his two father figures. Finally his nervous eyes settled on Dutch's defiant ones. "W-what do you mean," he asked cautiously, not knowing what to expect but fearing the answer. The gang leader opened his mouth, but Hosea was quicker. "Dutch here thinks that it's a good idea to try and reconcile with the Gray family... since they are _so_ much more reliable than the O'Driscolls!" The sarcasm was strong in the old man's angry voice.

"What," John exclaimed, shocked and panicked. "Just what the hell were you thinking, Dutch? Are you trying to get us all killed? Get _Arthur_ killed?" He couldn't believe his ears! "I won't have that tone from _you_ , John," Dutch growled icily. "... Just so you know, Arthur _volunteered_ to go," the gang leader then added, crossing his arms and lifting his chin in a defensive gesture. "And you let him," John cried out, voice breaking and eyes wide in disbelief. "Oh my God... I hope he's not dead yet... I have to go to him!"

With that and one last outraged glare at Dutch, John rushed to his own tent to grab his gun belt. Then he ran to the horses and hopped onto the back of Old Boy, too busy to even saddle the stallion. Ignoring his leader's shouts for him to stop and come back, he turned his steed around and started towards the path leading away from the camp in full gallop. 'Please hang on, Arthur,' he thought, desperate. 'I'm coming for you!'

* * *

Once they arrived in Rhodes, Arthur felt almost relieved. Although he had been happy to be reunited with his loyal steed and get out of the camp for the first time in nearly two months, the short ride had been shadowed by his growing anxiety and the relentless pain below his belt. Sean had passed him worried glances, exchanging knowing looks with Bill. Thinking that Arthur couldn't see it. Grateful for his wide hat, he had blinked back the moisture in his eyes and grit his teeth almost to the point of shattering.

Oddly enough, Micah had mostly kept his mouth shut. Arthur should have been pleased, but instead the abnormal silence only added to his disquiet. It was when they dismounted and hitched their horses behind the first building that the realization truly hit him. They were actually doing this. They were going to walk into the Grays' own town and ask them for a job after burning their fields and humiliating them. This was suicide! This was madness! But according to Dutch, a job was a job... and they were already here.

Arthur made sure to take along every single gun strapped into his saddle and told Sean and Bill to do the same. "Right," Micah chuckled to himself, smiling and shaking his head, clearly amused by their precautions. As if there wouldn't be a need for those. As if they weren't about to walk into a shootout... or a slaughter. "Okay," the older man then exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "The good sheriff is waiting for us in his office. Let's go!"

Strutting along the dusty main street, Arthur quickly noticed that the four of them were the only ones about. It was already noon, usually the town was bustling at this time of day. Scanning the buildings, he was startled to see people gathered behind the windows, watching their arrival. And not just in one or two houses, the whole damn town had their eyes on them! As if they had been expecting them...

"Something's wrong," Arthur muttered out of the corner of his mouth, to no-one in particular. His hands came to rest lightly on the revolvers holstered on either side of his hips. The closer they got to the sheriff's office, the faster his heart hammered in his chest. He thought of John, whom he had left to sleep in his tent. Wondered if the boy would miss him.

Then a shot was fired and Sean's head exploded in a splash of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He decided that he hated that look, and wanted to never see it marring those features again.

John couldn't get to Rhodes fast enough. When he finally pulled Old Boy to a halt at the end of the main street, he was startled but not at all surprised to hear gunshots echoing from the other side of the town. He spotted four horses hitched behind the first building and recognized them immediately. The animals were spooked by the loud noises, tugging and pulling against their bindings. John tried to calm them down as he dismounted and tied up his own steed beside them. Then he pulled up his bandana and unholstered his two revolvers, fingers on the triggers just in case.

John sneaked swiftly behind the houses, avoiding the windows to remain undetected. The shootout was still in full swing, 'though he wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad sign. He stopped to take a peek behind a corner. There was a vast number of dead, unfamiliar bodies laying on the street... the Gray boys, he assumed... but what really caught his attention was the one sprawled out in the middle. The poor man's face had been blown off, but there was no mistaking the ginger mop of hair and green bowler hat. It was MacGuire!

John suddenly felt sick to his stomach and he tore his eyes away to scan frantically for the other members of his gang. He spotted Micah and Bill some way ahead and moved on a couple of houses to get a better look. The two were crouched behind some crates on opposite sides of the street, shooting back at the men that were gathered around and clearly protecting the sheriff's office. Despite the significant losses among their ranks, it appeared that the Grays were still holding their own against the fierce but hopelessly outnumbered Van der Lindes.

Speaking of which, Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Spurred on by the cold dread that this realization brought into his body, John took a deep breath and made a mad dash to where Micah was taking cover. "Marston! What are you doing here," the older man barked at him over the gunshots. "Helping you! What the hell happened here," he yelled back and took aim, starting to fire as well. "It was a goddamn ambush," Micah growled, sounding furious. "They shot Sean out of nowhere and then they opened fire on the rest of us!"

"Where's Arthur," John questioned, his eyes desperately searching for signs of the man. "How the hell would I know," Micah snapped, shooting a bunch of men that were positioned closest to them. "Haven't seen him since all hell broke loose. Makes me wonder..." The older man hurried behind the next cover, a shot-through wagon, and John followed suit. "Wonder what," he asked, motioning for Bill to move forward as well. "Well... Maybe he saw an opportunity and saved himself."

"Oh, come on," John exclaimed, incredulous. "You _know_ that Arthur would never do that!" The man would rather die than leave his family in trouble and that was the truth. "Just saying," Micah shrugged and continued to weed out the remaining Grays. John caught movement in the corner of his eye and turned just in time to put a bullet through a man that was about to shoot Micah in the back. The bastard had been lurking in the building next door. John hoped that there would be no more surprises in store for them.

"Finally warming up to me, eh Marston," Micah sniggered and slowly stood up behind the wagon. The gunshots had ceased, the Grays' men lay dead all over the street and thankfully there was no sign of more of them lunging into the fight. "Now come on," the older man hollered, starting to march towards the sheriff's office. "We've got an appointment to keep!" John rolled his eyes and followed reluctantly, guns at the ready and glancing around anxiously. Arthur had still not showed up. What if the poor man had been shot and lay now dead or bleeding behind some corner?

"You okay," John asked Bill as the man came to walk beside him, clutching a bleeding arm. "I'm fine, just a graze," the older man grunted. "Can't believe what those bastards did to Sean!" John nodded sadly and glanced back at the Irishman's body. "Did you see where Arthur went," he inquired, trying not to let the growing panic sound through in his voice. "Nah, it was all just a haze. He was here when it started, though. Shot a lot of those Gray boys, but after that I don't know where he disappeared."

"Why are you here, anyway," Bill continued as they joined Micah in front of the sheriff's porch. "Just got a bad feeling," John muttered and turned his attention to the blonde man that was calling out to the last surviving Grays holed up inside the office. "Come out, Sheriff Gray! It's over!"

"Who the hell do you think you are," came a high-pitched cry from behind the closed door. "You think you can come into our town, the Grays' town, and... and _disrespect_ us in every way and then expect us to make a deal with you? How dumb are you?!" John heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced at Micah, who seemed oddly nervous. 'A deal... what deal,' he thought, confused. Had they not mentioned a job? Perhaps Abigail had misheard. "There's no deal," the older man replied after a pause, sounding unconvincing. "Just a family trying to get by. We have women and children-,"

"It's too late," the voice interrupted. "You want us to come out? We'll come out! Here's your _deal_ ," rang a shout and then the door flew open, letting half a dozen armed men barge out onto the porch. John, Micah and Bill acted upon instinct and pointed out their weapons, ready to shoot. The last figure to emerge out of the office was Sheriff Gray himself, but startlingly the man was not alone. John's eyes widened in horror, nearly dropping his guns as he recognized the bloody mess that was being roughly dragged by its hair and slammed down onto the hard wooden surfice. "No! Arthur!"

The poor man had been beaten into a pulp. His hands had been cuffed and legs tied with a rope. His grunts were muffled by a bandana shoved into his mouth, but his eyes, 'though black and bloodshot, remained uncovered and locked into John's own fearful ones. The man looked surprised and oddly unhappy to see him, at least judging by the shock and panic that spread across that battered face. The sheriff knelt down next to Arthur's head and yanked it backwards, eliciting a pained yelp. It took every last drop of John's self-restraint not to lunge at the bastard.

"Did you really think that we would be satisfied with only one of you degenerate scum," the sheriff mocked, pressing the barrel of his revolver against Arthur's temple. "That we would let the rest of you continue your lawless, indecent lives and rob and rape and murder your way through this beautiful county? _Our_ county?!"

One of John's fingers tightened unconsciously around a trigger and he caught himself at the last minute. Frustratingly he couldn't just shoot the bastard or Arthur could be killed as well. 'What the hell is this guy on about,' he wondered while settling for gritting his teeth and glaring murderously. His fellow gang members provided no clarification either. Micah had gone uncharacteristically quiet and Bill seemed just as puzzled as he himself felt.

"Wrong," the sheriff exclaimed, now pointing his gun at the three standing outlaws. "We don't make deals with criminals!" Suddenly Arthur was roughly grabbed by the jaw and forcibly pulled into a half upright position, bruised cheek smashed flush against the other man's. "We'll shoot all three of you and then we are going to pay your family a little visit. I'm sure that _Mr. Callahan_ here will be more than happy to share their location after a little more... persuasion."

John could see Arthur's Adam's apple bobbing and fear and resignation flashing in those tired eyes at the threat of more pain. He decided that he hated that look, and wanted to never see it marring those features again. It was time to put an end to this... whatever this was. This _play_.

Arthur must have seen the determination on John's face and read the intention behind it, but instead of hope or relief the man's eyes blew wide in urgent alarm. He struggled desperately in the sheriff's grasp, somehow managing to partly spit out the gag. "N-n-no," he cried out, voice cracking, blood and saliva trickling down the sides of his mouth. "Marston! P-please... Get away! It's Micah-"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What had he done?

A single gunshot echoed around the main street. For a few seconds the whole world seemed to freeze as everyone tried to wrap their heads around what had just happened. Then the scene continued... and John watched, horrified, as Arthur fell. Unlike everything around him, his heart came to a stop again. It was like a worst nightmare come to life.

It took John a moment still to realize that the one with a bullet hole in their forehead was, in fact, Sheriff Gray and that Arthur was simply being dragged down by his dead captor's weight. The opposing side seemed to have come to the same conclusion and the three outlaws had barely time to dive into cover before they were hit by rabid gunfire. Explicitly relieved and spurred on by the knowledge that Arthur was still alive, John retaliated in kind and ultimately the bunch of boozy, rage-blinded deputies proved no match to the seasoned gunslingers.

As soon as the very last Gray dropped dead onto the porch, John rushed up the steps to check up on Arthur. "Are you crazy," he barked over his shoulder at Micah as he dropped down to his knees and shoved the sheriff's heavy corpse off of the violently struggling and clearly panicking man. "You could have hit Arthur!" He then proceeded to snatch away the gag and untangle the rope tightly bound around the jerking feet. "That," grunted Micah, lowering his gun but keeping it unholstered, "Was a risk I was willing to take."

The second Arthur's legs came free, the man scrambled into a standing position. "H-hey! You're hurt, I don't think you should-" Ignoring John's protests, the older man brushed past him and down the steps, hands still awkwardly cuffed behind hunched back. With a frustrated groan John started to go through the sheriff's pockets in search for the key, but stopped when he heard a surprised yelp and whipped around just in time to witness Arthur stumble rather gracelessly into the red Lemoyne dirt.

It would have been a comical sight, if not for the grim circumstance. John's initial instinct was to run to the poor man's aid, but something in the situation stalled him. He would have expected to hear spiteful guffaw from Micah's direction, and perhaps Bill's as well, but surprisingly no such reaction came. An unnerving silence occupied the street instead.

Painstakingly Arthur wrestled himself back up again, burning eyes fixated on Micah. "You bastard," the man growled, spitting blood and taking a staggering step forward. "You tried to sell me out. When you failed to kill me yourself, you had to get someone else to do it for you!" An ugly grin spread across the already distorted face. " _Pathetic_."

John let go of the sheriff's corpse and gaped at the two men, eyes blown wide in alarm. "What-... Is it... Is it true?" At first it looked like Micah was going to try to deny the whole thing, but Arthur's daring glare and the tense atmosphere must have convinced the man that there was no point in lying. "... I had to try, alright," he spat nervously, hateful gaze trained on the injured man before him and fingers visibly tightening around the handle of his revolver. "If there was a way to bury the hatchet with even _one_ of our enemies-"

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Micah had given Arthur's life to the Grays! And in exchange for what? A dead duck of a truce? John paid Arthur a worried glance. The older man looked ready to rip Micah's head clean off, and John couldn't blame him. Hell, he would've gladly done it himself. He brought his hands down to rest on his holsters.

"Did you know anything about this," John asked hoarsely, turning his attention to Bill who looked positively out of place. The older man appeared startled at the blame being suddenly shifted his way. "What? No! I swear, Marston... Morgan... I had no part in this!" John wasn't quite sure whether to believe the man or not, but saw Arthur nodding dismissively in the corner of his eye. Micah, however, didn't seem satisfied with the answer. "Come on, Bill... Be rational about this. There's no shame in sacrificing the weak so that the strong can live... It's called survival!"

It happened in the blink of an eye. Riled up by Micah's words, John drew out his guns and the blonde man reciprocated, aiming at Arthur's head. "You're a traitor," John growled, trying to hide the fear he felt for the older man's safety. "We took you into the gang! You called us your brothers! How could you do something like that?!" As he raged on, Arthur suddenly started to limp towards Micah. "Go on then," the man urged, stopping only when his forehead came into contact with the barrel of the other's revolver. "Do what you have always wanted to do. Kill me!"

John saw Micah's finger twitching against the trigger. "If you do it," he warned, voice cracking in panic, "I'll blow your brains out!" In return he got an annoyed sideways scowl. "Williamson," Micah called out after a pause, eyes still nailed on the target at his mercy. "I need a little help here!" Bill seemed to have spaced out. The man blinked slowly a couple of times before shaking his head, meeting Micah's expectant glare... and raising his gun. "Sorry Micah, but... Well, it's just... Argh, you _know_ that we have a code! We don't sell out our own."

The longer Bill stammered on, the harder Micah pressed the barrel into Arthur's skull. Finally the man snapped and kicked Arthur square in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards to the ground. "I knew it," Micah cried out, spinning around to aim at Bill instead. "I knew that you would take their side, you coward, you... you _queer_!" Bill's face flushed scarlet and Micah laughed at the man's dumbfounded expression. "That's right, _Marion_! I know that you are just like these two... a bunch of inverts! Of course you would love the man that sucked Colm O'Driscoll's co-"

Micah never got to finish that sentence. John had heard enough, and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced Micah's temple and the three of them watched the man sway for a split second, eyes and mouth blown wide in surprise, before twirling around on his feet and slumping dead to the ground. The revolver slipped out of his hand and landed next to his head with a final thud, unfired.

A heavy silence fell upon them for several minutes. Taken aback by his own actions, John slowly lowered his smoking gun. What had he done? "... Great! What is Dutch going to say _now_ ," Bill suddenly exclaimed, agitated. John shot the man a warning glare and holstered both of his weapons, turning to look at Arthur. The older man stared unblinkingly at Micah's motionless form, as if in a trance. "... Arthur," John called out cautiously, brow furrowing in worry when no reaction came. "Arthur... Hey, Arthur," he tried again, this time stepping closer. "We have to go. It's not safe here."

"Where will we go? Where _can_ we go," Bill bemoaned as John knelt down next to the crouching Arthur and gently touched the man's shoulder. The contact seemed to bring the older man back from whatever dreamland he had gone to. His bleary, bloodshot eyes wandered around the street before finally settling on Bill who gawked back expectantly. "There's an old mansion," Arthur then started, voice weak and rattling. "East of the Braithwates', called Shady Belle... Found it with Lenny before... before..."

"Okay, great," John interrupted hastily, not wanting the poor man to dwell on that particular line of memory. "Bill, could you go tell everyone to pack up," he then continued, turning to the man in question. His words came out awkward and hesitant, unaccustomed to giving away orders. Bill appeared just as ill at ease receiving them from a junior gang member like him. "Fine," the man ground out after a moment of stupefied staring and shuffling feet. "But what about you two? Are you not coming back to the camp?"

"I'll take Arthur straight to the mansion," John replied, standing up and returning to the sheriff's corpse to resume looking for the key to the handcuffs. "Bill...," he heard Arthur rasping after a pause. "Would you take the kid and... bury him properly, someplace quiet." There was a minute's grave silence before Bill grunted plaintively, "Sure thing, Morgan." After a few heartbeats the man continued, "... What about Micah?"

"Micah doesn't deserve a burial," John snapped over his shoulder as his fingers finally wrapped around a thin piece of metal. "Of course not," Bill snarled indignantly, the man's heated gaze following John as he made his way back to Arthur with the key in tow. "I sure as hell ain't digging a hole for that rat! No, I meant... what am I going to tell Dutch and the others?"

The handcuffs came undone and fell to the ground with a chink. "... The truth, I guess," John offered hesitantly after a moment of consideration. "No," Arthur protested, rubbing at his bright red and clearly painful wrists. "No... Dutch won't believe you. Tell them that Bell died in the shootout." John and Bill exchanged puzzled looks. Since when had _Arthur_ started doubting their leader's judgement? And _lying_ , too? "Okay," Bill finally complied, sounding unconvinced. "I'll get the horses. You just... take it easy, alright?" Arthur coughed and nodded weakly, expression pleading. "Alright."

They watched as Bill gave Micah's body one last lingering glare and a harsh nudge with the tip of his boot before heading back to the opposite end of the street where the gang had first dismounted. John was just about to bring up the matter of Dutch when suddenly Arthur crawled the short distance to the dead man sprawled in front of them. "You underestimated him," he heard the older man mutter softly, hazy eyes boring into the back of the bloody, unmoving blonde head. "And so did I. He was never yours to use as leverage... Never needed me to protect him."

"Uhhh... okay," John blurted, perplexed, after a long awkward pause. He wasn't sure whether Arthur was talking to him or the corpse. Both alternatives seemed equally unsettling, as the man's words were making no sense. John didn't have time to ponder about their meaning, though, as the deafening sound of twenty hooves clopping against the street soon brought them both back to reality.

Bill came back leading all five horses. Sean's steed had its dead master draped across its back. John bounced up to accept the reins of Old Boy and Eliza. "You're riding with me," he informed Arthur, knowing better than to ask for the man's opinion. The stubborn fool would try to ride on his own and end up hurting himself even more. Surprisingly, though, John's decision was met with little resistance.

Once Arthur had been wrestled up astride Old Boy's rear end, John took his own place in front of the older man. A pair of bruised, bloody hands wrapped shyly around his midsection and soon they were followed by a hot cheek resting against his shoulder. "Let's get out of here before the rest of this crazy family comes after us," Bill called out, mounting his own horse and whistling for the rest of the herd to follow. "See you at the mansion," John replied.

They rode into opposite directions, Bill back to the camp and John towards the location Arthur had mentioned. John pushed his stallion as hard as he only dared, afraid of dropping his frail and alarmingly quiet passenger. Eliza followed hot on their tail and suddenly he prayed that the mare's saddlebags contained dressings, cursing that he hadn't thought of it sooner. The older man's wounds would certainly need to be tended to once they arrived at the mansion. As with what came to John himself... he wanted to get some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are my everything, John had said.

It wasn't long before they arrived at Shady Belle. John stopped Old Boy in front of two concrete walls that guarded the entrance to the mansion. The man jumped off the back of the horse and offered a hand to Arthur who clasped onto it like to a lifeline. As soon as his boots hit the ground, his knees buckled and he stumbled into those strong, youthful arms. He was then gently guided to sit down next to one of the walls and he did so with a grateful sigh.

"Wait here," John whispered, handing over the reins of his steed and unholstering his revolvers. "I'll go check if the place is empty. Keep an eye on the horses." Arthur nodded in acknowledgement, though he barely registered what the younger man was saying. So lost he was in his own thoughts.

Micah was dead. Micah was finally gone... and Arthur felt cheated. By who, though, he wasn't sure. Cheated by the world, by God Himself... if such a thing even existed. If it did, it had a funny sense of humor. The bastard that had blackmailed, mutilated and very nearly killed him had been shot by the same man that he had gone to such lengths to protect. John had acted when he never would've expected it and ridded him of his tormentor, changing everything.

Even now the younger man was fighting for him, at least judging by the gunshots and muffled shouts that carried from the mansion. Arthur had half a mind to go help John out, but couldn't bring himself to get up. Eliza came to nuzzle his fingers while Old Boy pranced around nervously at the end of the reins. "There there... It's alright, boy...," Arthur murmured soothingly at the stallion, scratching the head of his own mare absent-mindedly. The sounds of the encounter had already ceased, but the minutes still dragged on and on.

Arthur started when John finally reemerged from behind the wall, looking sweaty and out of breath but thankfully unharmed. "There was a couple of those Lemoyne Raiders holed up in the house," the man explained between gasps. "Handled them easily," he quickly added, putting his guns back into their holsters and wiping his hands on the legs of his trousers. "Of course you did," Arthur chuckled as the younger man helped him back onto his shaky feet. "Let's just hope that there aren't any more of them."

"If there is," John stated matter-of-factly as they staggered side by side across the unkempt front yard, "We'll handle those, too. Together." At that moment Arthur actually believed in the man's words. He had survived so much in his life, especially during the past couple of months and with Marston by his side he felt like he could walk into Hell itself. Well, he had already done that _alone_ , hadn't he?

"Are the bodies still here," Arthur asked, glancing around once they stepped inside the run-down main building. "Dumped them into the bayou," John replied nonchalantly, closing the squeaky doors behind them. "Good," Arthur grunted and thought, 'The others are probably nervous enough as it is. No need to scare them further.' The younger man then led him through the entry and into the next room. "I-it's alright," he stammered, digging in trembling heels once he realized that they were, in fact, headed to a flight of stairs. "Just let me rest against one of these walls."

John flashed a sympathetic look. The man must have known how exhausted Arthur was. He must have, and yet... it seemed like he wasn't going to give up so easily. "It'll be worth it, I promise," the younger man indeed insisted, taking a determined first step on the stairs and holding out his hand for the umpteenth time that day. "Trust me," he added with a gentler tone when Arthur wouldn't budge. That earned him a long-suffering huff. "... _Fine_. But if we break our necks, I'm blaming you."

Ignoring the amused eye roll that followed his remark, Arthur grasped the extended arm with an impatient grunt. The way to the top proved to be just as arduous as he had expected, but eventually they managed to land on the upper floor without further injuries. "Here," John urged, opening the double doors to a large room right at the top of the stairs. A quick glance around proved that it was probably the master bedroom. Arthur's tired eyes were immediately drawn to a queen size bed that was pulled against one of the walls. 'Finally,' he thought, desperate. A haven of rest.

"Right! ... Okay," John exclaimed, clapping hands in a nervous manner. Arthur could feel the younger man watching as he approached the bed and eased himself gingerly on top of the musty blanket. "I'll go get the supplies," the other man then continued. "You just... take off your clothes and I'll check you out in a minute." Arthur had already started to peel off his boots, but froze at the suggestive choice of words. _Ch-... check him out?_

Slowly raising his head, Arthur found himself staring into John's rapidly reddening face. "I-... I mean...," the younger man stammered, the dawning realization almost comically obvious on his features. "I'll check out your wounds! T-to see if they need dressing." ... _Oh_. Arthur felt heat creeping to his own cheeks and looked away quickly, embarrassed. "W-well... Hurry up, then," he croaked, clearing his throat. Abandoning the struggle with his boot, he let his foot fall back to the wooden floor where his gaze was also trained.

Out of the corner of his eye Arthur watched John hesitate for a moment before stepping towards the doorway and disappearing down the stairs. It was only when he heard the front door creaking closed that he dared to look up again. A sharp twinge of pain shot immediately through one of his blackened eyes and he hitched a breath, a hand flying up to feel around the swollen, feverish skin. Damn, those Grays had certainly not taken it easy on him. But then again... What had he expected, knowingly walking into a trap like that?

Cursing his own foolishness, Arthur let go of his tender face and instead started to slowly unbutton his bloodstained, rumpled blue shirt. He then shrugged it carefully off his shoulders and folded it neatly onto the bedside table. Next he returned to his boots, feeling like a hundred-year-old as he bent down to slip them off. When it came time to take off his pants, his fingers made quick work of the belt and fly, but paused upon exposing his bruised, scarred thighs. Here he was again... About to be nursed by the same young man that had taken care of him all those weeks ago. Figures.

John had truly stepped up, though, hadn't he? For the first time in his life the younger man had actually acted like a goddamn man and taken control of the situation, making decisions and taking responsibility for another person's wellbeing. Now, if only he would take such care of his woman and child... It was a start, though, and Arthur couldn't help but feel proud and grateful that at least something good had come out of all the bad that he had suffered. It gave him hope... Especially now that justice had been dealt regarding Micah.

A faint knock brought Arthur back to reality. Turning to look on his left, he found John standing in the doorway, staring at him. "Lucky you're always... _well-equipped_ ," the younger man choked out upon getting caught, lifting the saddlebags that he was holding in his hands. "Someone has to," Arthur replied quietly, feeling his voice getting stuck in his throat as he watched the other close the distance between them and lower the bags onto the foot of the bed. It was only when the man's own weight settled down onto the mattress next to his hips that the joke hit home, and he blushed furiously.

"Let me have a look at you," John grunted, thankfully overlooking Arthur's less than dignified reaction. Resisting the urge to curl in on himself, he let the younger man's darkening eyes scan over his battered body. "It's not too bad," he asserted, running a shaky hand through his gritty hair and licking his split lips nervously. "Sure, they gave me a good hiding, but I don't think they broke anything." Except for his sense of self-respect, he thought bitterly. Not that it had been intact in the first place... Cringing inwardly, he watched as a sad expression spread across the other man's face.

"Come on, Arthur," John murmured, reaching out to run a calloused thumb across Arthur's brow, no doubt wiping away clotted blood. "You don't have to act tough all the time. I sure as hell can't. I mean... _Jesus_." As if to emphasize his words, the younger man's fingers slid lightly over one of Arthur's blackened eyes and down to caress a bruised, stubbled cheek. "I thought that this time I would lose you for good." The man's voice was barely a whisper, thick and hoarse with anxiety. "Why on earth did you go with them, anyway? Surely you must've known that it would be a suicide mission."

Gazing into John's openly concerned eyes, Arthur didn't feel inclined to tell anything but the truth. "They would've 'asked' _you_ next," he grunted, revelling in the other's touch and presence. John was safe. He had ensured it. "Even if you would've said no... Micah would've found a way to force you. I just couldn't let you go." Upset by the thought, he hadn't noticed that the younger man had taken a hold of his hand and was now placing slow, open-mouthed kisses on his chafed wrist. "J-John," he questioned breathlessly, feeling his cheeks heating up at the intimate gesture.

Suddenly Arthur was reminded of that one time when Hosea had walked in on them. _You are my everything_ , John had said. Clearly a naive exaggeration, but perhaps there was some truth to it. After all, the kid did seem quite keen on him. "Morgan... You fool...," the younger man muttered, proceeding to press hot and wet smooches along the inside of his forearm and up his biceps. Then their eyes met, and he was taken aback by the positively naughty grin that was spread across the other's face. "You brave, brave fool... You want help with that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John made him feel alive.

Arthur stared at John, frowning in confusion. Help? With what? Then the younger man looked pointedly down to his lap and he realized, to his mortification, that he was half hard in his briefs. "... _Oh_! N-no... It's okay," he stammered, though his body seemed to think otherwise, at least judging by the way his cock twitched in interest. "Please, Arthur," the other man whispered, pressing a firm kiss to his knuckles. "You just put your life on the line so that I wouldn't have to. Let me do something for you."

'But you're already doing so much,' Arthur wanted to say, but the words got stuck in his throat. He couldn't help but think how close to dying he had come that day. Or how... how _empty_ he had felt after what Colm had done to him. So empty, that he would've let himself be murdered in that forest. But he hadn't died, had he? John had saved him. His life, his mind... And not only that, John... John made him _feel alive_.

Reaching out hesitantly, Arthur cupped John's rough cheeks and pulled the man into a slow, tentative kiss. This seemed to please the younger man, who let out an excited growl and slipped long fingers into his hair. It didn't take long for the moment to grow heated.

Arthur couldn't stop the surprised yelp and the deep groan that escaped his lips as John tilted his head back and plunged a hot tongue down his throat. His hands moved to grasp the younger man by the shoulders, holding on for dear life when suddenly the man drew back, nipping at his lower lip and proceeding to suck and lick a wet trail along his jaw and down his neck to his collarbones.

Feeling lightheaded, Arthur reclined on the bed, dragging John down with him. The younger man settled on top of him, nudging a teasing knee against the bulge in his briefs. Then the man attacked his bare chest and this time his hands flew up into that long mop of straggly black hair, grabbing fistfuls of the greasy strands. When John's teeth closed hard around an erect nipple, Arthur bit back a cry and arched his back. He felt like a bow stretched too far, growing tighter and tighter from stimulation to an area of flesh that he had never even known to be so sensitive.

Soon enough John's mouth continued its journey down Arthur's quivering stomach, stopping along the way to dip the tip of a tongue into his navel. By the time the younger man's head came to hover above his crotch, he had already grown fully hard. "Oh... _Christ_ ," he whined breathlessly, getting up onto his elbows once he realized what the man had in mind. "Shhh... Just lay back," John murmured and placed a sweaty palm against Arthur's chest, pushing him gently back into the mattress. "Been thinking about this for so long..."

While speaking, John lowered his face and rubbed his nose and lips along Arthur's thinly covered length, as if taking in his scent. The younger man then licked at the spot of moisture that had soaked through the fabric at his tip, and he felt like he could've died from the mixture of arousal and embarrassment. And that was _before_ the man looked back up to him with that long-harbored lust burning in those dark gray eyes. "Can I," John asked hoarsely, fingering the hem of Arthur's briefs, and then paused, "... You _do_ know that you can say no, right?"

Arthur gave a nervous laugh and let go of John's hair, running a calming hand across his own face. Of course he knew, and he told the younger man as much. "I trust you, John," he added for good measure, for it was the truth. His words seemed to convince the other man, whose face suddenly melted into an impossibly soft expression. "Oh... Art...," John whispered with a touch of awe and leaned over to capture Arthur's lips in another, less rushed kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, John returned to the briefs, starting to slowly peel them off. Aroused out of his mind, Arthur clutched the bedsheet for support. The stifling garment came down around his thighs and his rock hard cock sprang free, smacking wetly against his belly and bouncing right back up. If that wasn't embarrassing enough, the younger man let out a low, admiring whistle. "Damn... I've seen you before, but... Never like this."

"J-John," Arthur warned, turning his head to the side and squeezing his eyes shut. "I-I won't last long..." He heard a sharp intake of breath and an impatient groan, and then there was a bold tongue tasting the precum that was steadily leaking from the tip of his cock. He felt almost proud when he managed to stifle the very unmanly keen that nearly escaped his lips... until the whole of his throbbing length was swiftly sucked into a wet, searing hot cavern.

"Jesus," Arthur cried out and lurched forward, eyes blowing wide at the wild image of John Marston's mouth stretched around his cock. "Could've warned me," he grunted breathlessly, his fingers finding the younger man's hair once again in a desperate attempt to pull himself together. In response he got an amused, teasing leer and a low hum that sent countless little sparks of pleasure all around his nervous system.

Moaning helplessly, Arthur fell rigid against the headboard. Then John started to _suck_ , and what little self-restraint he had possessed flew straight out of the window. Though the younger man had presumably... _hopefully_ never done something like this before, what the man lacked in practice he certainly made up with enthusiasm. Arthur couldn't stop his hips from canting up into that eager, welcoming mouth as it bobbed sloppily along his shaft, twirling a tongue around the head every once in a while.

Lost in the new, wonderful sensations, Arthur didn't realize that John was choking on his cock until the younger man's hands gripped his hips to cease their rocking, pressing them back down into the mattress. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he should've felt distressed at being restrained in such an intimate way, given the past weeks' happenings, but oddly enough it only managed to arouse him further. When the other man gave him a long, hard lick from base to tip, he threw his head back and let out a broken cry, tearing at the black mane in his grasp.

Just like Arthur had predicted, it didn't take long until he started to feel a white-hot pressure building up somewhere in the pit of his stomach. "John," he gasped loudly in warning, clawing and tugging blindly at hair and cloth to stop the stimulation as it became too much to bear. "Please, I-... I'm close!" John did come to a halt, and looked up to meet him with a gaze so full of desire and affection that it alone nearly sent him over the edge. The younger man then let go of his hips and instead gripped him firmly by the base of his cock, other hand disappearing somewhere downwards.

"Come for me, Morgan," John commanded in a husky tone that went straight down to Arthur's balls. Then his cockhead was wrapped again by a pair of hot, swollen lips and the younger man jumped right into a brutal pace, sucking and rubbing him off simultaneously. "Oh-... _God_ ," he wailed, nearing his peak, and clung white-knuckled to the headboard, hips jerking uncontrollably and twitching feet kicking up the sheets. There was a bright flash of light behind his eyelids and then he was coming hard, for the first time after everything, with John's name on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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